


more than missionary

by AdamantSteve, dustbear



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Church Boys, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fingering, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Peeping, Sneaking Around, Teenagers, Underage Sex, and more!, complete and utter sacrilege, jerking off in a confessional, no seriously i think that if there is a hell we are definitely going to it, we are going to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:24:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbear/pseuds/dustbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is fifteen, and he’s just grown into his low voice and long limbs, which have in turn outgrown the now-too-tight polyester short sleeved shirt that he’s been forced into when following his foster brother from door to door to preach the word of Jesus Christ as filtered through the eyes of the Church of Latter Day Saints.</p><p>Phil Coulson is newly seventeen, son of the parish priest at the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, and a couple boyfriends past being a good Catholic boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ralkana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/gifts), [lunaris1013](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaris1013/gifts).



> Inspired by [this post](http://ralkana.tumblr.com/post/61620491102/lunaris1013-ralkana-sweaterkittensahoy) on Tumblr (Ralkana, lunaris1013 and others), as well as AdamantSteve's griping about not wanting to write plot, and dustbear's griping about finding porn really difficult to write. 
> 
> Warning: Sacrilegious as fuck, really. At least one half of the authors (well, the dustbear half) spent her early life immersed in a variety of church tradition, and is now an unapologetic heathen.

Clint Barton is fifteen, and he’s just grown into his low voice and long limbs, which have in turn outgrown the now-too-tight polyester short sleeved shirt that he’s been forced into. The hot summer sun makes sweat run down his back and down his cheap shirt, and he grimaces at the uncomfortable fabric, notable only for its ability to never wrinkle. His arms ache, carrying the small box full of Bibles, but he steps dutifully behind his foster brother. Before his foster brother was Elder Collins, he was just Jake, who was nice to Clint and secretly bought him ice cream on hot days like this, but now Jake is back from his first year at Brigham Young University, and now he is just Elder Collins, who is dragging Clint door to door in order to tell the unfriendly and unreceptive neighbours about a book about Jesus Christ. Clint fidgets at his black tie, far too tight around his neck, which is logically improbable because it’s just a clip on. Well, at least he doesn’t have to wear that dopey nametag.

Clint rings the doorbell, his contribution to this awkward pilgrimage through suburbia.  

“Hi! My name is Elder Collins, and I’m here to talk to you about Jesus Christ.” Jake says, his voice bright and happy, and Clint rolls his eyes. The door slams in their face. Jake shrugs, and retreats off the porch.

Clint plods behind Jake - Elder Collins - who is already bouncing along down the pavement, apparently unfazed by the twenty four houses that they’ve already made no headway in preaching to. Clint counts them all - eighteen were closed rudely in their face, two politely declined them, a remaining four were never opened at all. He hates this process, but he’s been with the Collins for four years, far longer than any other foster family. The Collins officially adopted Jake two years ago, and despite everything, Clint hopes desperately that perhaps they might adopt him too. He’s grateful, even if the house is crowded with seven other boys, all fosters, and his life is filled with hand-me-downs and extremely strict curfews and the fear that they’re really just putting up with him out of a sense of civic duty. But, the Collins have _kept_ him, they’ve kept him for four years, and that is just the longest he’s ever had any sort of family to speak of.

Another door. “Hi! My name is Elder Collins, and I’m here to talk to you about Jesus Christ.”

Clint is already backing off the front porch, a rather nice one that’s shaded and framed in ivy, with a rustic wooden bench that looks out to the lawn which is about two weeks past being neatly manicured.

“Well, hello. I’m Patrick Coulson. Why don’t you boys come on in.” Clint jerks his head up, because a man with thinning hair and a friendly face, tall and slightly overweight, is holding the door open. “It’s 90 degrees out there. I have lemonade.”

“Thank you, Mr. Coulson!” Jake says, missionary training kicking in as he nudges Clint into the house.

“Phil, come say hi to our guests. This is my son, Philip.” Mr. Coulson says, gesturing to the boy who saunters down the stairs, and Clint stops in his tracks, because Phil Coulson, Patrick Coulson’s son, has the most gorgeous eyes he’s ever seen on a man.

“Er, yeah. Hi.” Phil says, raking his hand through his spiky brown hair. “Sorry, my dad does this all the time. He’s going to talk to you about Jesus Christ for like, hours. Okay, bye. I’ve gotta mow the lawn.”

“Actually, I am the parish priest at the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, but I think we could have a very interesting conversation.” Mr Coulson says, walking out of the kitchen with tall glasses of ice-cold lemonade. Clint thinks that if the Catholics have ice-cold lemonade, and people that look like Philip Coulson, he really likes the Catholics.

 

***

Phil Coulson has never seen anything in the world as lovely as the awkward, sullen boy shuffling into his living room behind his chirpy older brother. He beats a hasty escape to the backyard, because his father is standing right there, and it simply wouldn’t do to stare at the boy, who is pouting the most beautiful pout while managing to look miserably uncomfortable in his tight shirt and cheap tie.

Phil tries to push the thought of the boy in his living room out of his mind as he wrestles with the lawnmower. It is certainly too late for him to be a good Catholic boy (he’s about two boyfriends past “good Catholic”), but he’s still trying not to be an utter and complete disappointment to his father, at least not until he turns eighteen in a year and moves out. It’s the least he can do, even bristling under his father’s new “calling” as a parish priest after his mother’s death over a decade ago. Well, it’s the least he can try to do.

But then, he glances over, and the boy is staring. Honest to god staring, and Phil quickly ducks his head down and tries to focus entirely on cutting the grass. The boy shifts in Phil’s peripheral vision, his muscled arms straining under the tight cotton and polyester blend of his short sleeved white button down, and Phil promptly walks his lawnmower into a tree. Phil groans. That wasn’t smooth at all. He swears that he can see the boy chuckle.

Alright, then. If that’s how they’re going to play it, Phil is game. He picks at the edge of his t-shirt. He knows how he looks now. His broad shoulders have filled in in the past few years, and he looks quite a lot closer to the men in the magazines he hides away than the slightly chubby boy he used to be. He’d still been a bit awkward at first, but the past couple years of _experimentation_ (because really, what else do you do at an all boys school?) have filled out both his ego and confidence well.

The boy is fidgeting on the couch now, and Phil grins as he pulls his sweat soaked shirt over his head. I hope the parochial vicar is in tomorrow morning, Phil thinks, because _someone_ ’s going to have to forgive these sins.  

 

***

“Well, I think the Church of Latter Day Saints actually does have a lot in common with the Catholic Church!” Jake says to Mr. Coulson. They end up sitting on the plush couch in the living room together, and Clint makes a deal with God to pray a little extra tonight, because he has a perfect view through the clear screen door to the backyard. And to Phil Coulson, who is now wrestling a lawnmower out to the backyard, his strong arms easily moving the lawn furniture aside.

“We are all spirit-children of God.” Jake says.

“I certainly agree that we are all children of God, but what exactly do you mean about spirit-children?” Mr. Coulson asks. “The Church believes that we are part of a long line of worshippers that descend from the first church founded by Jesus.”

Clint tunes out of that conversation, because Phil Coulson is now peeling off his white cotton shirt, which was sticking to his back in a manner that makes Clint feel the heat in his cheeks, obnoxiously aware that perhaps this is exactly what the Bible means about “temptation.” Phil is taking his time with the shirt, and Clint swears that he can see a small groan escape the other boy’s lips, as he finally - finally - pulls the shirt over his head. Phil wipes the sweat off his face with the shirt, and tosses it aside. And then, he looks up. Right at Clint. And he smirks. Clint’s entire teenage body reacts to the sight, and he’s never hated polyester pants so badly in his life.

Clint tears his eyes away, searching desperately for anything else to look at, finally landing on the crucifix located above the sliding doors. On the cross, the limp figure of Jesus Christ bleeds from his palms and feet, the gory scene rendered in cast plaster and mediocre paint. Clint reaches over to grab a throw pillow, positions it appropriately over his lap, and returns his gaze to the backyard. It is, hands down, a generally better view.

“Yes, of course we believe in the holy institution of marriage.” Jake is explaining to Mr. Coulson. “We don’t actually believe in polygamy, well not our Church. There’s a sect that broke off a while back....Clint, you’ve been quiet. What are you thinking about?”

Clint yelps when Jake elbows him in his ribs, shaking himself out of his reverie. Phil, of course he’s thinking of Phil. How could he not think about Phil, the sweat glistening off his golden skin, dripping slowly off the curve of his nose…”Phil...lip” Clint blurts out.

“Um, Philip, the apostle.” Clint’s brain immediately strives to fix the words falling out of his mouth. “The gospel of Philip speaks of the sacrament that is made between a man and a woman, and the indisso-um-indissolubility of marriage.” The other men were just talking about marriage, right?

“Clint, the gospel of Philip is not canonical.”

“No, it’s not, but -” This would be a lot easier if Phil was just named John or Matthew or Paul, Clint thinks.

“But, it really is an interesting text. Speaking of the Gospel of Philip - tell me, Elder Collins, what do you think about Jesus’ purported relationship to Mary Magdalene? A bit sacrilegious, don’t you think?” Mr Coulson starts up again, and Clint sinks back into the cushions, relieved.

 

***

The tree that Clint is perched in is uncomfortable, but at least he’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans right now, and not the ridiculous outfit he has to wear when accompanying Jake on his missionary duties. The rapidly cooling evening air is cold on his skin, and he wishes he’d grabbed a hoodie too, but he wasn’t planning on actually staying that long. He does spend an awful lot of time in trees, since it’s one of the only private places he gets to himself, especially living in a house with seven other boys, all foster children. But this tree, this tree is special. This tree happens to be in a backyard of a foreclosed house, which is not extraordinary in any way except that it is right next to the house belonging to Father Patrick Coulson, the parish priest for Sacred Heart Catholic Church. And this tree just happens to also provide an amazing view into the bedroom window of one Phil Coulson.

The first thing that Clint learns about Phil Coulson tonight, is that Phil does not close his blinds.

The second thing is that Phil Coulson is gorgeous with clothing on, but his bare torso is worthy of the Sistine Chapel, and Clint doesn’t feel particularly sacrilegious for thinking that because even the demons in that mural were really hot.

The third thing is that Phil Coulson is not at all concerned about going blind, because he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his hand shoved roughly into his unzipped jeans. Clint’s hand drifts similarly downwards, because the tip of Phil’s cock is peeking past the waistband of his boxers, and the sight almost makes him fall out of the tree.

He's never really seen another boy's cock before, not hard and red like Phil's is. Clint watches, mouth hanging slack and open as Phil pushes his underpants down far enough to properly get a hand around himself, and Clint tips forward, realising just how hard he is when his own dick presses against the branch he's sitting astride.

Clint can feel that his face is red because he's far too warm all of a sudden, even with the cool breeze rustling the leaves around him. Through the window, Phil licks his hand and leans back on the bed, brazen as anything as he slicks his cock up with his spit, not even under the covers! Clint's jerked off in the shower, of course, and sometimes under the sheets when he's double and triple checked that no one's around, but never this luxuriantly -  never as though there's nothing else in the world he'd rather be doing. This - this is amazing.

His throat clicks when he swallows, and he leans forward again for the pressure of the tree against the seam of his jeans. Phil's moving his hand so slowly on himself, laying back even further so his legs are spread for the whole world to see. Well, perhaps not the whole world. Perhaps just this tree, this perfect and wonderful tree that Clint is ready to make a false idol of. Clint watches as Phil starts moving his hips up and down, bracing his feet on the bed to thrust himself into his tight fist, and Clint can't help but echo the movements he's making, rocking back and forth just a little against the lumpy bark of the tree. It's not quite enough, mostly because it’s a tree, but it feels divine, and Clint wonders in the back of his head if anyone else has ever jerked off in this tree before, because he knows about porn, knows people watch it, but this has to be better than that, right? Because it's all happening right now, right there in front of him, framed neatly by blue curtains and dark red bricks. And maybe Phil does this all the time, maybe even every night. Maybe, Clint should come by to check tomorrow.

He figures he ought to feel worse about this than he does. But he's not doing anything really, he's just sitting in a tree. He's not the one touching himself with the curtains open, working himself on top of the sheets like it's God's work.

Still, he doesn't stop pressing his cock between himself and the branch as he watches, clinging on to the wood as much to stop himself from unzipping anything as to keep himself aloft. It's not comfortable exactly, but he could watch this all night; Phil's hand and hips are moving even faster now, fast enough that his balls bounce between his legs as he moves, and he's got to be making a noise, surely, the bed springs or something, but Phil doesn't seem to care, speeding up and then slowing down, rolling his hips as he fucks up into his fist a half dozen times until his movements get jerkier and less fluid and he comes. Right there, framed in the window with Clint watching, Phil Coulson comes into his hand and flops down against the bed.

Phil gasps silently, and the look of pleasure on his face makes Clint wonder if he might be struck down by the wrath of God if that look were actually turned in his direction.  

And then, he doesn’t have to wonder, because Phil is standing up, wiping his hand off on a towel from the floor, and walking - nay, strutting - right towards the window, and his eyes are looking directly at the tree that Clint is in. Clint’s instinct is to leap from his perch, run home, and beg absolution from God, but instead he remains frozen and still in the darkening night. Phil Coulson leans over his desk, scrawling on a stack of Post-It notes, and when he walks over to the window again, Clint’s hope that he wasn’t seen is proven absolutely futile.

Phil sticks the first note against the window, smiling. _Hey kid, I know you’re there._

The second. _My dad’s at evening bible study._

And finally, the third. _Just come over already, stupid._

Clint does fall out of the tree now, twisting his ankle slightly on the hard ground, and he crosses the distance between the neighbour’s backyard to the Coulson’s front door in record time. Not that there is a record for the horny young man 100m dash, but if there were, Clint would have definitely have taken the gold.

He rings the doorbell with a trembling hand, shoving at the button instead of a gentle poke, and his heart beats as he hears the footsteps ring out from inside the house.

And then the door opens, and there is Phil Coulson. Still shirtless, and still slightly flushed from his earlier activities. The look on his face is absolutely wicked, and Clint thinks for a moment that if this is how the devil looks, he completely understands why Faustus would sell his soul.

And Clint doesn’t know what to say, because his mouth is dry and his throat appears to have a tennis ball in it, but his training responds and - “Hello, my name is Clint Barton and I’m here to talk to you about Jesus Christ.” - spills out of his mouth, and god, that was pretty fucking _dumb._

“No, you’re not.” Phil laughs, reaching out to grab Clint’s arm and pull him into his house, and Clint is certain he couldn’t be happier about the prospect of going to hell.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint sits at the dinner table fidgeting uncomfortably, as Phil walks confidently across the kitchen to gather up bowls, spoons, and finally, three cartons of ice cream, which he places smugly in front of the younger boy.

“I’m starving.” Phil says, with a knowing smile. “I suspect you are too.”

Clint gawps at the pints of ice cream, colourful and emblazoned with names such as Cherry Garcia and Phish Food and Chunky Monkey. The Collins do not buy ice cream, and Clint only eats it once a year at the Church’s ice cream social, where the large tubs of vanilla ice cream that melt too quickly are set out in the parking lot for the congregation to mingle around. Clint has only ever had vanilla ice cream.

“You look like you’ve never had ice cream before. Are you allergic to nuts?” Phil asks, a small furrow of concern between his eyes.

”No, um, my foster family. We don’t really eat sweets in the house.” Clint stammers, because he doesn’t want Phil to think he’s a prude, because he’s not a prude, he just doesn’t get to eat ice cream every day, that’s all.

“Oh, you poor boy. I have so much to show you.” Phil walks over to the cabinet then, and when he returns with jars full of sprinkles and crushed peanuts and two squeeze bottles, one filled with chocolate sauce and the other with caramel, Clint is sure that this is not hell, but heaven.

Phil scoops ice cream generously into Clint’s bowl, explaining each flavour. Although Clint is genuinely fascinated with the concept of ice cream with both fruit and chocolate in it, he is really more enthralled by the way Phil’s lips move, his pink tongue slowly licking the melted cream from his spoon. Clint is certain that he has gone red again, but Phil is looking over his own bowl without judgement, and judging by the way Phil’s foot is sliding up against his own, Phil has likely gotten past “not judging” and is now firmly in the category of “enthusiastically complicit.”

“I didn’t come over to talk to you about Jesus.” Clint finally blurts out, scooping the last of the chocolate sauce from the bottom of his bowl.

“Oh, that’s a shame. Fortunately, I’m a good Catholic boy, so I already know plenty about Jesus.”

Clint feels strangely brave. “Oh, do good Catholic boys jerk off in their bedrooms so strange boys in trees can stare at them?”  

“Apparently, yes.” Phil says, and his smile grows devastatingly mischievous. “Can I show you what else good Catholic boys can do to good Mormon boys?”

Clint stammers out a “Y-yes,” and then Phil has plucked the spoon from his hand. He watches eagerly as Phil takes a giant scoop of ice cream directly from the carton and eats it hungrily, his hands simultaneously pulling Clint up from the chair and backing him up against the refrigerator. Clint is already hard when Phil reaches for his zipper; he’s been hard for twenty minutes and he’s starting to ache from it.

Phil doesn’t hesitate or tease, just kneels down and swallows Clint’s cock easily without further comment. The cold of Phil’s lips contrast with the hot, slick wetness of Phil’s tongue and Clint is absolutely certain that this is not actually what good Catholic boys do, but he is in no mood to argue.

Clint doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he reaches back to grasp uselessly at the refrigerator door behind him, sliding through fridge magnets and shopping lists when the coolness of Phil’s mouth starts to move. There’s a painfully handsome boy on his knees in front of Clint, looking up at him with the devil in his eyes every time he pulls back far enough, watching Clint’s reaction when he flicks his tongue this way and that, and it’s too good, so good. Clint knows that he will come any moment and he’s sure it’ll be over then; he’s had dreams like this that he never wants to wake up from, so he casts his eyes away from Phil and looks around the room in desperation for something else to look at.  But - even staring at a framed portrait of a long haired and blue eyed Jesus Christ on the wall can’t hold off Clint’s pending ecstasy, and he comes with a little high pitched squeak and a handful of magnets falling to the floor and that portrait of Jesus, blithely watching over them. Phil pulls away just as Clint comes, spattering hot semen all over the kitchen tile.

Clint barely lasts thirty seconds, but he’s not embarrassed about it, because jesus christ, that thing with the ice cream, and the licking, and the _mouth_ \- how could anyone _survive_ that, much less last? Phil is still hard and ready when Clint finally catches his breath, and he’s looking at Clint with an unreadable expression, although Clint thinks that it can probably be categorized under either  “lust” or “stomachache.” Clint slides down the refrigerator, watching Phil efficiently wipe up the mess with a paper towel. His eyes are drawn to the bulge in Phil’s jeans, and something in him crows with pride - I did that to him, Clint thinks - this beautiful person wants me.

“Um. I can do that, if you want.” Clint offers, his voice reedy and wrecked. “I haven’t - I haven’t done that before, but I can learn.”

Phil’s eyes are dark when he offers Clint his hand. “Would you like to check out my room?”

 

 

***

Considering Phil’s earlier forwardness, not that Clint seemed to mind at all, he tries to make it up for it by making sure that he is perfectly gentle when he ushers Clint into his bedroom, letting the door close with a quiet click behind him. Clint is standing in the middle of the room, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with his own limbs, so Phil helps him, walking over and sliding his arms around Clint’s waist and pulling him close.

Kissing Clint is easy, not just because the other boy is about the same height, but because he practically melts into Phil’s lips, perfectly happy to explore Phil’s mouth slowly and curiously. It’s almost sweet, and Phil gets even more turned on because he is certain that he’s never been kissed that innocently before.

“Is this your first time kissing a dude?” Phil asks, trying to regain some control in his voice, although he knows that he’s sounding a bit squeakier than usual.

Clint ducks his head bashfully. “Um, it’s my first time - first time...ever?” he says, and the way the red crawls up his cheeks is a picture that Phil wants seared into his brain forever.

He looks scared and a little defiant, like he expects Phil to laugh at him, which in turn makes him look about eight years old, with the tiniest bit of a pout about his mouth and a frown that’s about to come out from its hiding place between his eyebrows. “So, I’m your first… _everything_?” Phil asks in the end, and Clint nods hesitantly. “Well, you’re doing pretty good for your first time.” Phil says, and it’s kind of an asshole thing to say, but the idea of introducing Clint to all _this_ is making him unbearably hard and lends him a bit of swagger he never even knew he had.

Clint swallows and visibly steels himself before moving in to kiss Phil again, more forceful than before but still achingly sweet about it. He still doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, so Phil takes one and puts it against the front of his pants, pleased at the uptick in Clint’s breathing. He looks lost, hand pressing hesitantly against Phil’s pants until Phil presses his palm to Clint’s crotch and massages it a little more forcefully. Clint makes a little gasp before kissing Phil again and shifting his hips the tiniest amount, like he’s waiting for permission, like he doesn’t want to be _rude_.

Phil rests their foreheads together and grins. “It’s my turn now,” he says, and Clint, god bless his soul, looks incredibly contrite all of a sudden, eyes wide and sorry.

“Oh,” he replies, stepping back but falling onto the bed clumsily. “I didn’t -”

“I’m kidding,” Phil says. “You don’t have to…”

“I want to,” Clint says obstinately, like he’s being denied something that’s his right. “Do I need ice cream?”

“Oh wow,” Phil laughs. He should probably feel worse about this than he does, but at least there are no framed pictures of Jesus Christ in his own room. “No, you don’t need ice cream.” He unzips his pants and steps out of them, glancing out at the tree he’d watched Clint watch him from before pressing a palm against the front of his underwear.  He turns back to see Clint kneeling on the floor next to the bed, watching him with wide, lusftul eyes.

He licks his lips and keeps looking, and Phil thinks he might come all over the floor himself. “Really? You want to… you want to suck my cock?”

Clint nods, nervously at first and then with more force, enthusiastic and defiant, and Phil’s heart nearly pounds it's way out of his chest.

Clint’s sloppy, and Phil’s careful not to thrust too much cause he doesn’t want to make Clint gag, but it’s ridiculous how amazing it is, how warm and soft that sweet, pouting little mouth is around his cock. Phil’s mouth runs dry and he has to swallow twice before he can speak, telling Clint just where to lick and what to do with his tongue. “You sure you’ve never done this before?” he asks, and Phil thinks Clint would smirk if his mouth wasn’t occupied, because his eyes are filled with smug accomplishment. “You’re a natural,” Phil mutters, threading his fingers through Clint’s church-neat hair and mussing it so it stands on end.

It’s over pretty fast, with Phil pushing Clint away to come into his own hand, although the little noise of disappointment Clint makes only makes Phil come harder. He stumbles to the bed to flop down ungracefully, clumsily reaching around for something to wipe his hands on. Clint taps his knee and hands him a towel, the one Phil had used not an hour earlier, when Clint had been watching from outside the window.

“I’m hard again,” Clint says, still sitting on the floor, half apology, half whine.

“Come up here.” Phil shifts towards the wall and lays on one side to watch as Clint stands and rubs a palm over his own crotch. His mouth is wet still, pink and pretty, and when he lays down on the narrow bed, Phil pulls him close to feel those beautiful lips with his own again.

Clint melts against him, and holds on around Phil’s waist when Phil manages to flick open the button on Clint’s jeans and get a hand around his cock. It takes barely a minute before Clint’s coming between them, with Phil’s lips on his neck muttering the most profane prayers of all. He clings to Phil’s shirt and gasps, and looks absolutely perfect when he does it, and Phil pulls back to watch him as he tips over the edge and decides he likes this angle the best of all.

When they are both sated and stretched out on Phil’s twin bed, their sides lined up against each other, Phil catches Clint staring at a corner of his room, his eyes fixated on a point near the back of his closet.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, because he doesn’t think there’s anything in there except dust bunnies and laundry overdue for the washer.

“You have a bow.” Clint says, a note of wonder in his voice.

“Oh, that. Yeah, it was one of the sports my dad wanted me to try. I never took to it. Just like I never took to soccer, or football, or baseball, or hockey, or swimming, or tennis...” Phil drifts off because he’s annoyed at the thought. He’s never been the child his dad wanted, not even before his mother’s death. He plays the cello now, but his father won’t buy him one because it’s too expensive, so he has to borrow the school’s.

“Can I look at it?” Clint asks, but he’s already off the bed and reaching into the closet. It’s a just cheap student bow, part of an entry level youth archery set, but Clint is holding it like it’s the most amazing thing that he’s seen today. Considering that Phil was the last thing Clint was holding, he can’t help but feel a little bit envious of the inanimate object.

“You’re not supposed to leave her strung.” Clint says, his voice low and authoritative. “You’ll have to get her new strings, but she’s good, she’s perfect...”

“Um, you can have it.” Phil offers, because it has been in the back of his closet for at least three years.

“Really?” Clint exclaims, his eyes bright and wild. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, just don’t let my dad find out. And I don’t have any arrows...I lost them all already. Look, there’s a tree outside my window - can you climb it?”

Clint looks out. “Yeah, of course. Duh.”

“I’m gonna leave it on my windowsill, you can come get it later, okay?”

Clint grins, although his hands are still clasped around the bow as if it were precious gold, and not a rickety pile of fiberglass and plastic. “Are you trying to sneak me into your room at night?”

Phil snorts. “I think I already did that.”

 

 

***

“My dad’s usually back by now.” Phil says, searching for the remote control in his living room as Clint perches awkwardly on the edge of the couch. “Don’t worry, I have guests all the time.”

“What kind of guests?” Clint snipes, a jealous note in his voice. Phil whips his head around, taken aback. Clint hunches into himself. What was he thinking? Of course Phil would have others, it’s not like he’s _special_ -

“Stop thinking that.” Phil scolds, and his face is patient and gentle. “I don’t - I don’t do this with everyone. I mean, I’ve had two boyfriends, but I don’t just - you know.”

“Are we boyfriends?” Clint blurts out.

It’s Phil’s turn to look bashful and uncertain. “If you want.”

“Isn’t that a sin?” Clint asks, not that he really cares, because taking the Lord’s name in vain is also a sin and he does that all the time, and based on what his foster parents say, watching television and eating chocolate and not cleaning your room are also sins, not to mention ice cream.

“I don’t know how your church does it, but we - we confess our sins. To our priests.”

“You’re going to tell your _dad_ about us?”

“Of course not. I’m just saying that...you know, penance, followed by absolution. Like, if I suck your cock, maybe I can just say some Hail Marys and read some scripture and it’ll all work out in the end.” Phil says, and Clint laughs, because - could it really be that easy?

“So, what do you think?” Phil says, bumping up his shoulder against Clint, but refusing to look him in the eye.

“I - I think that yes, I want to be your boyfriend. And you should probably teach me what a Hail Mary is.”

They relax on the couch together, on separate ends, although Phil wriggles his toes under Clint’s hips and the calm friendliness he exudes grounds Clint and helps him focus on the television, which is playing reruns of M*A*S*H.

There is a low conversation outside the door, and footsteps, and Clint scrambles to sit upright, instinctively trying to flatten his messy hair. The door opens, and Phil yanks away his toes, turning around to greet his father.

“Hey dad, I ran into Clint at the park and invited him over to -” Phil begins.

“Clint?” Elder Collins - Jake - says, stuttering to a halt right inside the front door. He is standing next to Phil’s father and Clint thinks that it might actually be a little _too_ close, for two men that just met earlier that afternoon.

“Jake! What are you doing here?” Clint yelps.

“Um, I invited Elder Collins over to our bible study for a discussion about his faith.” Patrick Coulson says, although his eyes are shifting suspiciously.

“And... you were planning on continuing the discussion over coffee? In our living room?” Phil asks, with a sly smile crawling over his face.

“Yes, exactly.” Father Coulson stammers, his hands reaching up to fidget at his clerical collar.   

“Well, I was doing the same thing with Clint. Having an interfaith discussion. He has some very interesting thoughts on ...um, Corinthians.” Phil says, his chin up and shoulders squared.

“Is that so?” Jake says, but his eyes are soft. “It’s really good that you’re sharing your faith, Clint. I’m very proud of you. But, it is past your curfew and I should take you home.”

Clint walks silently behind Jake as they walk towards their cramped home, a heavy guilt resting in his chest. The Collins have done so much for him - clothed him, housed him, and this is how he repays them? By sneaking out after his curfew and wallowing in _sin_. Clint curses inwardly as his teenage body reacts to the mere thought of the - _sinful_ behaviour. Jake stops walking then, looking worried, and places his hand on Clint’s shoulder, which at least helps to deflate certain other parts.

“Clint - “ Jake starts, disapproval in his voice.

“Look, I’m sorry I stayed out after curfew -” Clint begins to apologize, because he does actually feel bad. Would his foster parents have stayed up waiting for him, worried that he wasn’t home yet?

“It’s not that. Our parents will understand that you were being led by the Lord.”

“Um, yeah, that. Yeah.” Okay, sure, it’s a surprising reprieve, but he’ll take it.

Jake runs a hand through his neatly cropped hair, and pinches the bridge of his nose with a frown. “Thank you, Clint. I’m glad you were there tonight. Thank you.”

“Um, why are you thanking me?”

“For leading me from temptation.” Jake clears his throat and continues down the street, his head bowed. Clint, confused, follows.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obsessive footnoting is dustbear's fault - just wanted to answer some questions that have come up!
> 
> 1\. Yes, the majority of Catholic priests take a vow of celibacy (very, very rarely, a married priest is "grandfathered" in). Phil's father felt a calling to serve the Church after his wife's death when Phil was very young. He went through seminary school as a single father, and when Phil was about 12, he was ordained as a priest and took his vows of celibacy (although he's actually been celibate since his wife's death). It is not uncommon for a widower to join the priesthood, although they are generally discouraged from doing so if they have very young children. 
> 
> 2\. I feel like I should address the use (or lack thereof) of "Mormon underwear." The short answer is that Mormon children generally dress like any other children (girls dress modestly, but you probably wouldn't be able to tell a mainstream Mormon teenager from any other), and the special undergarments don't come into play until reaching adulthood, and an endowment ceremony.
> 
> 3\. I really handwaved a lot of the Mormon missionary stuff due to the original "prompt"(which was just SO GOOD). Apologies!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is just a porny-as-hell interlude before we move on to more plot. :) You may compliment AdamantSteve for her hot church boy porn at her [Tumblr page](http://adamantsteve.tumblr.com).

It becomes a bit of a habit, this Phil thing. Clint finishes his study worksheets for the day, and dutifully helps his younger foster siblings with their homeschooling, and if he spends a little more time watching the clock than usual, everyone is too busy to notice. At four in the afternoon, he is free to do as he wishes until his curfew at eight, and he’s running out of the house the moment the minute hand clicks on the 12, headed towards the small park a few blocks from Phil’s house. Phil says that they can hang out in the house, says that his father doesn’t mind him having friends over, but to be honest, Clint might enjoy the sneaking around a bit. Besides, after a particularly enthusiastic make out session had knocked a statue of the Virgin Mary off Phil’s dresser, cleanly decapitating the Mother of God - Clint preferred to have Phil away from the prying eyes of any saints, angels, martyrs or gods.

Clint climbs up his favourite tree in the park, which is not his favourite tree next to Phil’s house, but it will do. He sits in the tree, up on the very highest branches, and assembles the bow that Phil gave him. It is just a simple youth recurve, but it’s already the most important material object in Clint’s life. It was the main thing he’d liked about the circus, before Child Protective Services had gotten involved and he’d been taken away from the 16 hour days of labouring in the hot sun. And the beatings when he’d miss a shot. But in the circus, he’d also had a bow, and he’d learned how to shoot more accurately than even Trickshot, his mentor. Clint had gotten used to the slow draw of the string and the way his world would narrow into nothingness, just the arrow, and the bow, and the target.

Clint doesn't have any money of his own, there isn't any extra to go around in the Collins family anyway, but he’d bartered a couple hours of stockroom work at the local sporting goods store for a new bow string. He's pretty sure that the store got the better end of the deal, but he doesn't care, because he's stringing his bow now, his hands easily executing the practiced movements even after years without. He tests the draw; it's about twenty pounds lighter than what he used to train with, and he doesn't even have arrows yet, but the familiar tool in his hands already feels something like his oldest friend.

“Hey kid.” The familiar voice that he’s been waiting for sounds below, followed by a kick to the tree. The tree doesn’t move, but Clint does, scrambling down to the lower branches with a surprising lack of regard for the concept of footholds. Phil is there, looking up with a giant smile on his face, and Clint’s heart skips several beats because meeting in the park is what they do almost every day, but today, Phil looks very different.

Phil is standing there in a pair of tailored navy blue slacks, a white button down dress shirt and a loosened tie with an embroidered crest and subtle striping hanging casually around his neck. He’s holding a blazer around his arm, and his shoes are shiny and polished black, and Clint thinks that right now, Phil looks a lot like the Prince Charming in the old Disney movies that his foster family lets him watch with the younger children.

“What are you staring at?” Phil demands, his voice a pretend petulant. He reaches up for the lowest branch, already beginning to haul himself up to join Clint in the tree.

“No!” Clint says, and Phil drops back to the ground, startled and curious.

“I meant...I just didn’t want you to ruin your clothes.” Clint tries to explain. In his household of hand-me-downs and far too many children to provide for, ruining your Sunday’s best is reason to be assigned the worst chores.

Phil looks embarassed for a second, before shrugging and pulling himself onto the tree anyway. Clint shimmies down a couple of branches to meet Phil, although Phil is already above the bulk of leafy canopy, sitting in a large Y shaped branch with his legs dangling in the air. “I was already late, and I didn’t want to stop at home to change,” Phil explains, seeming completely ignorant of how incredibly good he actually looks.

“You’re staring at me again.” Phil points out. Clint has no way of configuring his words to tell Phil exactly how hot he thinks the uniform is right now, all buttoned up and scholarly, so he figures he’ll just have to show Phil instead.

"You look like... like you're out of a catalogue or something," Clint says, and he doesn’t exactly mean the JC Penney’s catalogue, but Phil doesn’t need to know that. "Just.." Clint reaches out and touches Phil’s jaw, already strong and solid at just seventeen, and he really does look handsome, so neat and tidy and clean. Phil quirks his mouth as if to ask something, but Clint leans forward to kiss him instead, going as soft and slowly as he can. He feels Phil's mouth curve into a smile beneath his, but when he reaches up towards Clint, he starts to lose his balance, knocking Clint's teeth as he jerks away in a brief panic. Clint grabs him and keeps him aloft, giggling a little at Phil's coordination as he pushes at him to move back, closer to the trunk. Clint follows him down the branch until they're as close as they can get, Phil's legs draped over Clint's knees and Phil's back against the tree.

"You scared you're gonna fall?" Clint asks, sliding his hands between Phil's waist and the tree trunk, kissing softly under his jaw. Phil's hands grasp the worn hoodie Clint's wearing, and Clint shifts a little just to see if he'll grab on tighter. He does, and something hums warmly in Clint's chest.

"No," Phil says, and he looks obstinate when Clint pulls back to look him in the face. He shifts again to make Phil yelp and grab on, kissing him again through laughs and more clinging. That is definitely one of the things Clint likes about having Phil up in a tree with him, the way Phil's hands are nearly always on him, grasping on like he trusts Clint to guide him higher up the tree. Phil never says to stop, even when he quails a little at how high they’ve gotten, and Clint figures maybe it's kind of mean, but can't feel too bad about it when Phil looks at him like Clint really will be able to catch him if he falls.

Right now, Clint's too preoccupied with keeping Phil as pristine as he looks - even though there is definitely a short twig sticking out of his otherwise neat hair - kissing a way around that starchy collar. Clint doesn’t hesitate to take advantage now that he’s been given free reign since Phil's hands are still attached firmly around his waist. Phil's eyes open a little wider when Clint undoes the top-most button and kisses the little triangle of warm skin it reveals. "What if someone sees?" Phil asks quietly, because they don't usually do much of anything outside of Phil's bedroom, tree-clinging not withstanding. Clint shrugs. "People don't usually look up," he answers, and it's true. That's why he likes being up high; you can watch everything and no one notices you at all. Clint is used to not being noticed, but being able to control how he’s not noticed is still a skill he treasures. Phil seems unconvinced, but Clint offers him a sly smile which gets him another kiss in return.

"If we keep making out," Phil says after a little while, one hand unclenched enough to twine his fingers with Clint's between them, "I'm gonna come in my pants."

"No!" Clint says again, because Phil’s soft wool pants are far too nice to get ruined like that.

"Well, you got me all worked up," Phil says reproachfully, like it's Clint's fault for sucking on his tongue. He's hard too, but he's just in some fifth-hand jeans and who cares about them?

"Take it out," Clint whispers against Phil's lips before biting his own and looking up at him. Phil's gaze darkens and he swallows as he looks around at the glimpses of park between the leaves, as if he's actually considering not getting his cock out for Clint to touch. He's so hard that it’s actually a struggle to get the zipper on his pants open, but he manages it somehow, and then he's just as hard and perfect in Clint's hand as always. Clint shuffles backwards and grabs ahold of a smaller branch to one side before dipping his head to lick. It's all fast enough that Phil evidently takes a moment to actually parse what's going on, hissing, "Clint! You can't!"

Clint stops and looks up, the head of Phil's cock peeking out from the top of his fist, wet and shiny. He licks once again and grins. "Do you really want me to stop?"

"N-no."

When he's done, both their cum wiped messily on the leaves and bark around them, Clint's not sure why he wanted to keep Phil so pristine when he looks so decidedly perfect now, flushed cheeks and shirt half undone, wet cock still swaying as Phil slumps back, finally relaxed enough to stop being scared of falling.

***

“I have something I want to show you.” Clint says, looking shyly through his eyelashes and Phil, already exhausted and spent, decides that he’ll go anywhere that Clint wants. Clint gives him his hand, and helps him over a large gap between the tree’s branches and then Phil mostly just focuses on not falling, following his monkey blooded boyfriend upwards.

“Here.” Clint says, gesturing next to himself, and Phil sees a large wooden plank screwed into the branches. A chunk of tree bark has been scraped away unceremoniously, and Phil can see the name “CLINT” etched into the bark in a childish hand. He hoists himself up, settling next to Clint, and through the leaves, he can see the entire town around them, small and steady in the distance. “I come here to be alone,” Clint says, “But I wanted you to see it.”

“I wish I had something special to show you too.” Phil mumbles, feeling a bit pathetic. Clint is so much more _interesting_ that he is, full of stories about the circus and life on the road. Phil doesn’t really have anything to talk about besides his school, and that barely warrants his own interest, much less Clint’s. He wishes he had a cello, so he could play for Clint, show Clint one of the only things he’s actually really good at, but short of sneaking Clint into his private school after hours, that's unlikely to happen.

“Can - can you show me your church?” Clint asks nervously, and Phil agrees immediately, because that’s something he can do.

The Sacred Heart Catholic Church is an impressive building for their small town, three storeys of short cathedral spires and pseudo Neo Gothic architecture. Clint looks at it with wide eyes, tracing the outlines of the small arches and spiralling pillars. The building is empty, although Phil knows that his father is leading a prayer meeting in one of the adjoining classrooms, and parishioners sometimes come by to pray. Phil feels strangely brave and slips his hand into Clint’s own as they enter the building. He knows that he isn’t ready to come out to his father yet, not ready at all to admit that he likes boys, likes Clint, and he doubts he ever will be ready for that. But here, in the church, watched only by the eyes of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit - well, he wants God to know, so he grasps Clint’s hand tighter, and treasures the steady grip that he receives in return.

Phil stops in front of the holy water font, a small fountain like receptacle near the entrance, dipping two fingers in it.  He automatically makes the sign of the cross, the muscle memory ingrained in his arm, as he dabs the cool water on his forehead, and then his stomach, left shoulder and right shoulder. “It’s a holy water font.” he explains to Clint, who’s looking at him with curious eyes.

“I know what that is.” Clint rolls his eyes, but his smile is friendly and wide. “We’re Mormon, not aliens.”

Phil snorts, embarrassed, but Clint steps up to him and grabs his right wrist before he can wipe his wet fingers off on his pants. “What are you -” Phil starts, but Clint has leaned forward and is licking the holy water off his fingers, and he doesn’t have any idea how to finish his sentence. He’s usually a lot more competent in all Clint-related matters, but he’s standing in a church, on holy consecrated ground, and his thoughts are so far from pure, they’ve already made it to the second circle of Hell.

“Just checking.” Clint says, his eyes sparkling. “I’d heard the Catholics use wine instead of water.”

“For communion. We don’t baptize babies in wine.” Phil gently corrects, but Clint is already wandering over to the confessional booth, pulling him along lightly but insistently.

“How does this work?” Clint asks, walking around the small rectangular box. “Is this where I confess if I’m planning to sin?”

“I’m not sure it works that way.” Phil says. “Were you planning on sinning?”

In response, Clint hustles Phil into the small booth, crowding him against the back wall. “I think I’ve already been sinning a lot lately, don’t you?” Clint whispers into Phil’s ear huskily and Phil is certain that no amount of reciting the Lord’s Prayer will save his soul now. Clint’s hand tangles around the rosary around Phil’s neck, running his fingers over the smooth beads and Phil leans into the kiss, letting Clint explore at his own pace.

“I want to confess.” Clint says, running his long fingers over the aged wood of the confessional chamber.

“You have to confess to a priest.”

“I’m not confessing to your dad. I’ll confess to you.” Clint says.

Phil stumbles awkwardly into the other side of the confessional, divided from Clint only by a heavy curtain and a low ledge. His heart is pounding out of his chest, and he reaches over and flicks the switch that lights a small red light outside, the signal that the confessional is in use.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” Clint says, and Phil has to stop himself from slamming his head against the back of the confessional, because his cock is already harder than he thinks it’s ever been. “It has been  - well, never - since my last confession. These are my sins.” Clint continues, and Phil doesn’t know how Clint knows what to say at a Catholic confession but he really doesn’t care because his mind is suddenly flooded with the thought of Clint touching himself on the other side of the curtain. His parochial school pants are far too tight.

“Go ahead.” Phil stammers.

“There’s this boy I think of all the time, Father. He’s good to me, and so good looking, and he’s so sweet when he kisses me, and all I want is for him to fuck me hard in the ass until I come screaming his name. Is that a sin, Father?”

Phil’s throat is dry when he finally chokes out his answer, which sounds just as lame on his lips as it did in his head. “I’m pretty sure it is a sin, yes.”

There's a tiny little sound from the other side of the confessional, the smallest sigh coming from Clint and then a rhythmic sliding sound which Phil's pretty sure is Clint jerking off. He's about to say something, about how that's definitely a sin and how they're literally going to burst into flames when Clint continues -

"But I know he wants it too, Father. He told me so, told me just how much he wants to come in my ass, and I want it too, so bad -" Clint breaks off there to sigh and his movement speeds up, the curtain between them jiggling a little with every stroke.

"That... that's very sinful," Phil admits, as much to himself as to Clint, because Clint might be taking significant liberties with his paraphrasing but he's not _lying_. Why did this seem like a good idea?

Phil reaches down to press a palm against his own erection and shakes his head as he cautiously pulls the curtain open enough to see just what Clint's doing. Sure enough, his pants are around his thighs and his cock is in his hand. He's smirking right back at Phil, like he's won something.

Clint thrusts his hands past the curtain and pulls Phil closer, grabbing at the front of his pants and opening them immediately for the second time that day. "Clint," Phil hisses, but quickly shuts up because Clint's kissing him roughly, and more fervently than he ever has. Clint is not particularly gentle when he pulls Phil's dick out, but Phil can't bring himself to mind much when his pants are so tight. Clint slicks up his hand with his pink tongue right in front of Phil before closing his fist around Phil's cock, at which point even the idea of protest flies out of Phil's brain.

Phil wraps his arms around Clint and kisses back, consumed by the sort of lust he's only been warned about and never knew could be real. Jesus himself could arrive on earth and he'd have a hard time rapturing Phil away from _this_.

Clint pulls back - not far, the booth is so small there's barely space for the two of them even as close as they are - to lick his way up Phil's neck. He grabs one of Phil's hands and pulls it up to his mouth, licking Phil's index finger right in front of his face before very deliberately placing it back to where it had been palming his ass. "Touch me," he whispers, barely a breath against Phil's ear. "Please?"

Phil's had _two_ boyfriends already so really, he shouldn't feel as much shivery thrill at the way Clint's jaw slackens when he pulls his hand back around to wet it properly, but then he slides his wet fingers down the crack of Clint's ass and finds what he's looking for and yeah, many apologies to Jesus Christ, but Phil's very deeply committed to this particular sin now. Clint gasps softly into Phil's neck as he presses carefully, slow but with intent, his breath choking when Clint opens up enough to let him in. "So tight," Phil mutters mindlessly, cock bobbing in time with the pulse Phil can actually feel around his finger.

Clint tips his head back against the wall of the confessional, neck long and perfect and begging to be kissed as Phil slides in further. Phil's own cock gets forgotten in Clint's bliss, but he's not sure he'd last if Clint was working him over with his usual enthusiasm, not when he's this perfectly hot and tight around his finger.

He moves in and out as gently as he can, unable to do much more from the angle they're in without moving Clint, and he looks so perfect exactly as he is that the thought of moving him seems like sacrilege. Clint moves himself though, shifting one leg up against the small ledge that divides the booth and making Phil push his finger all the way home to a louder gasp than the rest. Phil cringes at the sound, but no one comes knocking. Even if they did, Phil's not sure he'd care at this point.

"One day," Phil promises as quietly as he can, using his other hand to jack Clint's cock with same pace as Clint is thrusting back onto his finger. "One day, I'll open you up big enough for me," and it sounds clunky and unsexy when the words actually leave his mouth, but Clint apparently doesn't think so, because he clenches hard around Phil's finger and promptly comes into his waiting hand.

When Phil's pulled out and Clint's looking at him, eyes unfocused and beautiful, Phil licks his cum-covered hand clean, mostly out of necessity because even after everything, wiping his hands on the confessional’s thick velvet divider just seems wrong. But, he can’t help but smirk at the moan it elicits from Clint.

"I wanna suck your cock so bad," Clint's voice is a hoarse whisper, and Phil can't help but feel a little prideful at having led Clint to that point. Clint grabs him instead, because that's really all the space will allow, and it's only a few short tugs before Phil's coming right into Clint's hand. Of course, Clint licks his hand clean too, making even more of a show of things than Phil did. They kiss, and it is filthy and perfect and for all the rest of what they've just done, it’s that that feels like the most outrageous part, both of them tasting like each other in the most ridiculously intimate way.

Clint's a wreck and Phil's sure that he looks just as red and flustered, and absolutely certain that anyone that sees them will know exactly what they just did. Clint comes out after Phil looking more beautiful than ever, and Phil can't feel too bad about his own transgressions. They sneak out into the still empty church, the air cool on their skin outside the stuffy confessional that now reeks of sex and lust and other heathen things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes!
> 
> 1\. Phil's Catholic schoolboy uniform is pretty much as described. It's really Catholic schoolgirl outfits that tend to be more interesting. 
> 
> 2\. The "movie" version of a confessional usually features completely divided sections for the priest and penitent, separated by a grate. But for story purposes (read: porn), we decided to go with another common version, which has a heavy curtained divider.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s Clint’s birthday, and he doesn’t know it, because he doesn't remember ever celebrating one. The Collins do celebrate birthdays, but there are so many children in the house, so they do quarterly birthday celebrations. All Clint knows is that there will be cake at the end of the month, and him and Jake and two of his other foster brothers will all blow out candles at the same time. There’ll be white cake, frosted with some sort of buttercream, and there’ll be a wrapped present for him, except it won’t really be a _real_ present, just a pair of socks, or a new prayer book to talk about during Bible study.

So for Clint, it’s just another day, although all his days have been really good now that Phil’s around, and he’s in a good mood when his foster mom calls an end to the day of homeschooling and chores. He runs over to the neighbourhood where Phil lives, enjoying the feel of the warm afternoon sun on his skin. Clint has practically memorized Father Coulson’s schedule by now, and treasures the four hours between the end of Phil’s school day and the time that Phil’s dad returns home from his evening Bible study meeting, which coincides with his own curfew. They get a lot done in four hours, him and Phil, although as much as he loves kissing the other boy (amongst other less innocent things), he’s grown even more attached to the idea of having a friend.

The front door of Phil’s house is already open when Clint gets there, and he bounces into the living room to find Phil standing there, holding a small cupcake.

“Here, take this.” Phil says, thrusting the cupcake into his hands. It is chocolate, with white frosting and a smattering of rainbow sprinkles. “I have something to give you.”

Clint looks at the cupcake and licks at the frosting, savouring the smooth, sweet treat. “Is this something like the thing with the ice cream?” he asks, already starting up the stairs to Phil’s room. Clint isn’t entirely sure what Phil is intending to do with a cupcake, but if Phil insists on making sure that Clint gets a hard on any time he looks at a dessert, he’s not going to complain.

“No!” Phil yelps. “Just - just _eat_ the cupcake. I meant - it’s your birthday. I got you something.”

Clint stares at the cupcake. It’s his birthday?

“Your brother - Jake. He spent all night talking to my father about the pastoral epistles on the back porch, and stayed for breakfast this morning. And before you ask - my bedroom is right above the porch, and unless four hours of droning about Pauline authorship is traditional homosexual courting behaviour, I’m pretty sure that they’re not doing what we’re doing. Anyway, he talked at breakfast about how your family celebrates birthdays and said that today was your actual birthday….so here.” Phil produces a long wrapped package from behind his back. It is wrapped carefully in light blue gift wrap, with a dark purple ribbon around it.

“You got me a gift?” Clint stares at the wrapped present in his hands. He suspects that it probably isn’t a pair of socks.

“It’s just a thing.” Phil mutters, running his hand through his short hair. “If you don’t like it, you can exchange it for something else.”

Clint opens the present, trying not to wrinkle the paper the way he’s been taught, because his foster family always tries to recycle the wrapping. But then Phil sighs and says “Just tear it up, for goodness sake!” so Clint does, and basks in the heady joy of hearing the paper rip to shreds. The blue paper falls away, and then Clint finds himself holding twelve fiberglass arrows in his hand. The long, narrow shafts are cold and heavy in his hand, and the plastic fletching on the ends are purple and black.

“I thought it was a bit silly that you had a bow with no arrows. The guy at the store said these would work with the bow you have, and I know you like purple - Clint, are you okay? Are you crying?”

Clint’s not quite crying, he doesn’t think, but this is the first time someone has ever bought something just for him, just as a gift, for no reason other than it being his birthday. And Phil had to have saved up to buy these, and thought about what Clint would actually want, and even considered his favourite colour - and okay, maybe he is crying a little. Phil wraps his arms around him, reassuring and calm, and Clint mumbles a choked thank you into the steady shoulder.

“Hey, let’s go try them out.” Phil prods at his side gently, and Clint figures that he’s less likely to be embarrassingly emotional while actually shooting arrows, so he lets Phil lead him into the backyard. A burlap sack is nailed to the tree and Clint grins at the crude circles drawn on the coarse fabric. He turns to Phil, and kisses a deep thank you, and when Phil has to come up for air, his eyes dark and dilated in the late afternoon sun, Clint is ready to show Phil the other thing in the world that he’s really good at.

The first arrow is a bit off center; Clint hasn’t used a bow in about five years, and this bow is lighter than his last one. The next four arrows land squarely in the middle of the red circle. Phil gapes as Clint lets loose each arrow, each one released faster until the last few arrows bounce off the ends of the other, since the middle of the target no longer has any room to spare. The stuffing in the burlap sack spills out of the middle, falling to the floor, and Clint’s heart is the happiest it has ever been. Phil’s face is full of admiration and wonder and it’s a bit difficult to tear himself away from his new gift, but Clint knows exactly what he wants to give Phil in return.

 

***

“I have something I want to give you too.” Clint whispers into his ear, and then it’s all that Phil can do to keep up as Clint forcibly drags him up to his room. The bow and arrows are dropped off at the foot of Phil’s bed, and then Phil finds himself laid out on his own bed, with Clint aggressively straddling his thighs. Clint kisses hotly and wetly, and his nimble hands make quick work of Phil’s shirt. Clint hasn’t been soft and shy for a while, but this level of enthusiasm throws Phil off balance a little, even as his entire body responds to the gorgeous boy on top of him.

Clint slips out of his shirt and jeans and underwear without comment, and it occurs to Phil that this is actually the first time he’s seen Clint entirely naked, without a single shred of clothing remaining on his body. He’s stunned into silence, watching Clint grind and move on his still covered groin, and is suddenly reminded that Clint used to be a circus performer, and there are no other words to describe what Clint is doing except that it is definitely a _performance_. There is no trace of any awkwardness in Clint’s movements as he gyrates against Phil’s cock, and Phil forgets how to breathe.

But, when Clint reaches over for the lotion on the desk, brazenly crawling over Phil’s chest and practically dangling his hard cock in Phil’s face, Phil instinctively blurts out - “What are you doing?”

“You’re so good to me, Phil,” Clint mutters in his ear, stopping to kiss and nibble at his neck.”You’re so good, and you give me so many things and I can never give you anything, but I can give you this. Let me give you this.” Clint says, and he reaches his lotion covered hand to his own asshole, arching backwards like a particularly pornographic trapeze artist. Phil can’t see Clint’s fingers, but he has a really good idea of what they’re doing.

“I want to let you fuck me.” Clint moans, and that particular phrasing really doesn’t sit well with Phil, and he scrambles backwards, out from under Clint’s writhing body.

“Wait, stop.” Phil demands, sliding his hands up to Clint’s shoulders and holding him an arm’s length away. “Please, stop, I can’t let you do this.”

“What?” Clint asks. “You won’t fuck me?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s - you want me to fuck you as - as - a _gift_ to me? To pay me back for the arrows?”

Clint looks embarrassed for a second, ducking his head shyly, before he brings his eyes back up to meet Phil. “I’m sorry, it’s just that - that’s all I have. I don’t have any money, I’m not good at anything besides archery, and I wanted to give you _something_. Can we please - ” Clint’s hand reaches for Phil’s waistband, trying to pull him close again.

“No, Clint.” Phil reaches across the bed for Clint’s jeans. “Put these on.”

Clint looks irreparably confused and not a little bit disappointed, but he does as Phil instructs, although he doesn’t resist shimmying into his jeans a little bit and Phil can’t help but note that he doesn’t actually bother to put his underwear back on.

Clint sits nervously on the edge of the bed as Phil, still hard in his pants, swipes his Bible off his desk. His hands tremble as he flips to the verse he’s searching for, and he knows that Clint’s eyes are on him.

”'Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ? Shall I then take Christ’s members and make them the members of a prostitute?'” Phil runs his fingers down the page, stopping several verses down. “'Do you not know that your body is a temple of the holy Spirit within you,'” Phil reads, his voice a bit croaky. ”'For you have been purchased for a price. Therefore, glorify God in your body.'”

He looks at Clint, who is staring back quizzically. “It’s from First Corinthians. It says that Jesus has purchased our salvation with his sacrifice, and our bodies are not to be bargained away for trifling things.” Phil explains, trying to ignore the throbbing hardness in his own pants. Clint is looking intently at him, his hands folded in his lap, with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

Phil tries to continue - “You’re amazing, Clint. You’re clever and funny and caring and you’re important to me. And I love you, and I’m not going to have sex with you just because you think you owe me something, because you’re worth more than anything I could ever give you. And I don’t mean your virginity, which is a pretty awkward social construct anyway, but you are a precious gift and -” Phil’s breath is knocked out by Clint, who has thrown his arms around Phil’s waist, and is kissing desperately into his lips.

Clint’s eyes are bright and wet when he pulls away. “Say it again.” he demands.

“Um. You’re really important in my eyes and God’s? I’m not going to have sex with you if you don’t really want to?”

“Not that. You said you love me.”

“I do. I love you.” Phil insists, and Clint is kissing him again, slowly and achingly sweet.

“I love you too.” Clint mumbles into his lips. “And I’ve also been trying to get you to fuck me for weeks, and not for any reason other than I really, really, really want you to.” Clint reaches over to Phil’s Bible and flips the pages forward. “And if you’re trying to justify things with Bible verses - there’s this really perfect verse, oh, here it is.”

Clint clears his throat and reads, his voice strong and clear. “'I arose to open for my beloved, and my hands dripped with myrrh.'” Clint smirks, and puts the book down, starting to unbutton his jeans again. “Now, we’re all out of myrrh, but I think Jergens hand lotion will do just fine, unless you’d like to inform me that that’s not what the Song of Songs is about.“

“That’s not what the Song of Songs is - “ Phil tries to say, but Clint is already astride him again, and Phil decides that there are so many better things to do with his beautifully enthusiastic boyfriend than quote Bible verses at him.

 

They've...done things before, fingers and tongues and all sorts of fascinating exploration, and Phil's actually lost count of how many orgasms they've given one another over the past few months. But, they've never quite gotten to this point, though he's not sure there's much else to learn.

Clint strips off again and sits astride Phil, cock warm and solid against Phil's belly as he reaches back with a lotion-covered hand. He bites his lip and grins when he sees Phil looking, turning the wide-eyed innocence on his face absolutely filthy with a leer.

Phil pushes at Clint until he lets up and moves onto his back beneath him and takes over with the lotion. It seems like the least he can do, although Clint’s acrobatic flexibility is certainly something that he has to explore later. It leaves Clint's arms free to grab at Phil's shoulders and pull him closer to kiss and squirm happily, and he's slick and warm around Phil's fingers. "Do it," Clint whispers. "Fuck me."

There's no one home, no real reason to be so quiet, but Phil whispers back breathlessly anyway. "You sure?"

Clint nods and pulls him in even closer, pressing his face against Phil's neck. Phil turns his head to catch Clint's lips in a kiss before breaking away to slick up his cock before wiping his hand on that crummy old towel that's apparently become their best friend. But Phil isn’t thinking about the laundry; his hands are shaking nervously and he has to take a deep, fortifying breath before lining himself up and holding himself there before looking back up at Clint.

"Please," Clint goads, as though he thinks Phil might run off and start reading the Bible at him again. "C'mon."

Phil surges forward to kiss Clint, which gives him the courage to actually move, leaning back and then pushing in. It's tight, so incredibly tight, and he goes as slow as he can, feeling Clint's heartbeat flutter against his cock and - holy hell, he's actually doing it, he's actually _having sex_ and it feels _amazing_.

Clint grabs at Phil's arms and pulls him down to bury his head in the crook of Phil's neck again, both of them breathing light little pants of breath as Phil keeps going, pushing until his cock's all the way in, his balls resting firm against the smooth curve of Clint’s ass. "You ok?" Phil asks, pulling away enough to swallow and look at Clint's face, eyes lidded as he nods and grins weakly.

"Your cock is in my ass," he says, like it's a hilarious secret they are sharing, and Phil starts laughing at the same time as Clint does, nodding and giggling and saying, "I know."

Phil doesn't consciously decide to move, they just end up kissing again and it's natural to move with it, the same as when they roll around making out and rubbing off against one another - but approximately six million times better. He shifts his hips a little, just small rolling movements as they kiss each other deeply, and then it is impossible to stop kissing or moving because both things feel so hopelessly good.

Clint is making little sighs of pleasure, his cock jumping between them every time Phil moves, even once they've rolled over so Phil's bearing down between Clint's pulled-up knees. "We should do this all the time," he says, back to the soft whispers again, and Phil can't disagree. Maybe that's why people are always so against sex - if this is really how it feels, how do people get anything else done?

"Are you sure I'm not hurting you?" Phil asks, because his whole cock is sheathed inside Clint's hot body and there has to be some downside if it feels this good for him. But, Clint shakes his head and beams up at him. "No, no, it feels...like you're fucking me."

They go back to kissing and and Phil loses himself to the friction of Clint’s body sliding against his own. Clint gets his hand between them and wraps it around himself, jerking off in time to Phil's slow, tentative thrusts. "I love you," he murmurs softly, eyes fixed on the perfect V between Clint's collar bones even as he shifts and sinks back into Clint's tight heat. But Clint grins wide, the white of his teeth bright against the red bitten skin of his lips and Phil stutters in his movement when he looks up and smiles, a happy and content expression that Phil decides that he has to remember forever, because it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. "I love you too," Clint promises, and Phil comes not a moment later, shaking and almost collapsing right on top of him.

"Sorry," he gasps, still coming even as he tries to pull away, because doing this right inside Clint’s ass just seems rude, seems like it's really outrageous to - _well_.

But Clint's lost, moving his hand so fast that it is a blur as he jerks himself off with one hand and holds on to Phil with the other. He feels Clint come clenched around his cock, pulsing in time with the spurts of cum that spray over his chest. He presses onto it though, still warm before it cools in the air on Clint's skin, sealing them together like glue as they kiss.

“Next time,” Phil says softly against Clint’s ear, both of their chests rising and falling even as he slides gingerly free of Clint’s body. “You can fuck me.”

“Yeah?” Clint asks, just as soft, and the filthy and unrepentant promise in his eyes when Phil nods is something else he’d like to remember forever.

 

***

“Let’s go get ice cream.” Phil whispers, and it makes Clint giggle furiously, because ice cream will always make him giggle now. He throws his arms around Phil, childishly demanding a piggyback ride down the stairs, and pays for it by sneaking small kisses into the base of Phil’s neck, right where his neatly cropped hair ends. Phil takes the steps slowly and carefully, his right hand looped reassuringly around Clint’s ankle.

When they reach the flat landing, Clint reaches over to poke Phil in the side, which makes Phil laugh when he turns the corner - and lets go of Clint.

“What the -” Clint starts, picking himself off the carpet, and then stops, because Phil is pale as a sheet.

And, Father Coulson - he’s definitely Father Coulson now and not Mr. Coulson, still dressed in his stern black clerical collar - is leaning against the couch in the living room, his arms crossed.

“I thought you were at Bible study.” Phil stammers. “This is not what it looks like.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, son. This is exactly what I think it looks like.” Father Coulson says, his voice a depressed monotone. “Clint, I’ve called your brother to come pick you up.”

Phil steps in front of Clint then, practically shielding him with his own body, which seems silly to Clint, because it’s not as if Father Coulson is going to start throwing punches. Father Coulson’s face falls, and Clint thinks that this might be easier if he just looked angry, instead of heartbroken and disappointed. “This is my fault.” Patrick Coulson says, pacing around the room while running his hand roughly through his thinning hair. “I’ve failed you, Phil. I’m sorry. When I was called to the priesthood, I did not think that it would be at the expense of being a good parent. But-but I just haven’t known what to do since your mother died.”

Father Coulson gestures vaguely in the direction of both Clint and Phil, “I’ve allowed you to be led astray.“

“You don’t understand, dad.” Phil insists. “I love him.”

“Philip, church doctrine is clear - “

“I don’t give a fuck about church doctrine!” Phil yells, and the anger in his voice startles Clint, because he’s never heard it like that before. “You’re right! You are a shitty dad! I’ve been messing around with him under your roof for months now, and you’ve never noticed because you’re too busy with your goddamn church.”

“Philip, I’ve always tried - “

“Well, you didn’t try hard enough, _Father Coulson_!” Phil enunciates his father’s title mockingly. ”Clint is my third boyfriend, did you even know that? Did you know that I’m on track to be class valedictorian? Did you know I play the cello and I’m really fucking good at it? You know what else I’m really fucking good at, Dad? I’m really fucking good at sucking cock!” Phil swears, set on provoking his father.

“The word of God is clear, Philip.”

“I don’t believe in God.” Phil says, and he’s no longer loud, his voice low and bitter instead.

Father Coulson is pale, his lips pursed furiously, and Clint inches away from the confrontation, his flight instinct kicking into high gear. He’s almost to the front door, when it suddenly opens and he practically falls into Jake, who stands there with one hand on the door, and the other on Clint’s arm, steadying him.

“Patrick - Father Coulson, I’m sorry - I didn’t know about this.” Jake says, but he’s holding Clint back protectively.

“Please take him home, Jake. This is a family matter.”

“Yes, of course - but I need to talk to you for a second first.” Jake pleads, and Father Coulson waves him over the kitchen. They speak in hushed voices, but Jake steals furtive glances in Clint’s direction, and Clint has eavesdropped on enough conversations to know how to lip read the words ‘social worker’. He knows how this ends.

Clint remains rooted where he is, not daring to approach Phil, who is similarly stunned. When Jake returns to his side, placing a comforting arm on his back to guide him out of the house, Clint doesn’t even try to wave goodbye.

 

***

The pebbles hitting his window are the only thing that draw Phil out of his distraught crying, which he’s trying really hard not to do, because he’s almost a grown man, and grown men don’t cry about stupid boys. He leaps up to pull up his windowshade, and Clint has already scrambled up the tree that reaches his room.

“I’m going away.” Clint says, his eyes clearly red, even in the moonlight. “I’m not going to go to another foster family.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you come back?” Phil asks, hating the way his voice cracks into a sob.

“Yes. I’ll come back.” Clint’s hands reach out to grasp Phil’s. They are shaking, and Phil doesn’t really believe the words, doesn’t believe that he’ll ever see Clint again.

“I’ll wait for you, then.” Phil promises, and in that moment, he is certain that at least his own promise is true.


	5. Chapter 5

Clint is twenty four, and he’s much taller than he was the last time he was in this small New England town, thirty minutes out of Boston. He’s taken the bus down here, instead of going with the other performers to the beach. The street is still familiar, and he is surprised that he actually remembers how to get there, even though he doesn’t know the street address, and never has.

He pauses before he knocks on the door. A small part of him hopes that a complete stranger will open the door, because he’s not sure how much he wants to know that he’s been left behind. But, he is proud. The intervening years haven’t been easy, but he’s worked hard, and he’s made something for himself. He’s a carnie, sure, but he also picked up a GED shortly after running away from home, he’s a few semesters into a correspondence course for a Business Management degree, and his savings account is not unhealthy at all. He’s not the same sullen boy that he was the last time he knocked on this door, and he is proud of that, confident in the man he’s grown up to be. And if a little part of him still holds on to the thought that Phil would be happy that he’s made a scarecrow of a real person out of a lost teenager with no hopes or dreams - well, that’s the thought that echoes in his head when he reaches out for the doorbell.

It is a familiar face that opens the door, after all. “Father Coulson, I don’t know if you remember me.” Clint starts, trying not to think of the last emotion he’d seen on the elderly man’s face.

“Clint Barton. Of course I remember you. Please, come in.” Father Coulson holds the door open and waves Clint in. The house still looks like it did almost a decade ago, a crucifix still sits above the sliding glass doors to the porch; the framed portrait of Jesus Christ is still blue eyed, and still in the kitchen.

Clint can’t help noticing the picture next to the framed portrait of Christ, which is an official Army photograph of Phil, older of course. His expression is hard, his back rigid and his eyes stare fiercely into the distance. He looks miles away from the kind boy Clint once knew.

“I’m sorry, but haven’t spoken to Philip in years. I sent him to military school after you went away, hoping that the structure would help him, but I don’t think that was the right choice. He chose to join the Army afterwards. He hasn’t returned my calls or letters since he left boot camp.”  

Clint follows him to the dining table, where Father Coulson pours them cups of coffee, his thin hands shaking slightly.

“He was deployed to Afghanistan in January. He’s been missing in action since last month.” Phil Coulson’s dad says, and Clint tries not to let any emotion cross his face, but fails. “I’m really sorry for what I did. I still can’t accept homosexual sex as acceptable in God’s eyes, and certainly not any sort of sex when he was just a teenager, you understand that. But I should have tried to listen.” He walks over to a small altar in the living room, upon which is placed a lit candle and a picture of a saint, and picks up a set of dog tags. He slides one of them off the chain, and hands it to Clint. “I suppose that I really don’t care that my son is gay. I would much rather have my son. Just my son, the way God made him, alive and well.”

Clint rubs the cool metal in his hands, reads the last name(COULSON), first name(PHILIP J), Social Security number and blood type. The space where a service member would list a religion, if they had one, is left blank. “The Army found these at his last known location, but no body, or anything else. So, I’ll continue to pray for his safety.” Patrick Coulson explains, and he sounds exhausted and defeated.

Clint fidgets with the metal tag in his hand, not knowing what to say. Talking about Phil is obviously difficult for Father Coulson, and it’s not exactly easy for Clint either. “Do the Collins still live here?” he asks, although he isn’t sure why the elder Coulson would know the answer.

“They moved back to Utah with the whole family, after all their pending adoptions were finalized. They were trying to adopt you too, you know? But, your brother Jake - we’ve kept in touch. He went on a two year mission trip to Sierra Leone shortly after he graduated, but he’s decided to stay on for a few more years as an aid worker. I have his address, if you’d like it?”

“Yeah, sure.” Clint says, although he doesn’t think he’ll actually write.

Clint walks down the driveway with his hand clasped around the single dog tag in his pocket. From the front porch, Father Coulson calls out - “Clint?”

“Yes?”

“I hope you don’t mind if I continue praying for you.”

“No, I don’t mind at all.” Clint replies, and he tries to smile a polite goodbye.

***

Phil Coulson is twenty seven, and he’s a prisoner of war in a large compound near the border of Afghanistan and Tajikistan. All things considered, he is treated quite well. He‘s mostly confined in a small room with two of his other squadmates, and it’s cramped and often noisy, but they are fed well, and clothed cleanly, and generally left to their devices. He walks with a slight limp now, from a break that wasn’t set perfectly when he was first captured, but he mostly considers himself to blame for refusing the medical attention. He’s been here for over a year, he suspects, but unlike his squadmates, he’s stopped counting the days.

He is reading a Harlequin novel, a painfully trite romance about a cowboy and a city girl. The reading material they have access to is sadly lacking in variety, and he’s not sure how the small stack of Harlequin novels with the covers torn off got added to the pile, but he’s already read this book twice.

“Jesus Christ, Sitwell, are you fucking jerking off?” Sergeant Marcus Johnson exclaims, kicking at the top bunk. A choked laugh emerges from up top, followed by a low moan.

“Not anymore, sir!” First Lieutenant Jasper Sitwell says, and he definitely lets loose a giggle.

Phil grins. Well, if he has to be a prisoner of war, at least he is in good company. Sitwell hops off the top bunk, tossing a horribly disgusting looking washcloth into the sink.

“Had a dream about my first girlfriend. You never forget your first, you know?” He sighs, scratching his hairless belly.

“Of course you don’t. Wasn’t your first girlfriend just two years ago, Jasper?” Sergeant Fury chuckles.

“Shut uppp.” Jasper growls. “No, I actually had a girlfriend when I was a kid, dude. Catholic schoolgirl; her name was Maria and everything. Man, those Catholics really know how to get it on. Hey Phil, aren’t you Catholic?”

“I was.” Phil concedes. “But I would highly recommend you not think of me the same way as your Catholic schoolgirl.”

“Who was your first, Phil? Betcha she was some little hottie. They always go after the strong, clever types like you.” Johnson says, stretching out on his bunk.

Phil shrugs. “None of your business.”

“Oh, come on, Coulson. I’ve seen your balls, dude, and you’ve bled on me, and now you can’t talk about your hot teenage dalliances?“ Sitwell picks the book out of Phil’s hand, and tosses it aside unceremoniously.

Phil sighs. Eh, what the hell. “It was a boy, actually.” Well, if there was ever a good time to come out to his squadron, a prisoner of war compound was as good a place as any. “His name was Clint.”

Jasper exhales, and slumps onto Phil’s cot, easily clapping him on the shoulder. “Man, you never forget your first.”

Phil can’t help but find himself telling stories then - first, just sweet ones about Clint’s archery, and climbing trees and reading the Bible together. But then, Sitwell tells a story about having sex in his mother’s Buick, and Sergeant Johnson tells an unbelievably dirty one about an older woman and the contents of her produce drawer, and before Phil knows it, he’s telling filthy stories about ice cream and church confessionals and the three of them are laughing and crying and laughing about their teenage escapades. And Phil misses Clint so badly, but here, in a small room on the border of Afghanistan, not knowing whether he’ll ever see anyone he knows or loves ever again, his memories give him strength.

Two weeks later, Phil is paging through another Harlequin novel, this one about an oil baron and a nanny, when a guard comes to the door and hands Sitwell a book. He doesn’t pay much attention to the exchange, until Sitwell flops onto the cot and jostles into Phil’s side, gingerly placing the book on his lap.

“What is this?” Phil asks, brushing his fingers over the leatherbound book.

“You said you used to be Catholic - I know you aren’t anymore, but you still talk a lot about the Bible, like you find it really interesting and care a lot about it. And when you have panic attacks, you recite psalms to calm yourself down, and it helps - it helps to calm me too. I asked for an English language translation of the Quran, and the guard was more than happy to find me a copy. I know it’s not exactly the same, but it talks about the same God, and I think a lot of the stories are the same, and either way, even if you just read it as a historical text, it has to be better than reading that filth.” Jasper gestures dismissively at the romance novel in Phil’s hand.

That night, Phil reads about Moses again, the familiar stories arranged in different words - reads about salvation and hope and perseverance. That night, for the first time in years, he prays. He no longer has a rosary, hasn’t carried one since he left home, but he starts with a Hail Mary, and follows it with the Lord’s Prayer. The words are etched into his brain from a childhood of Mass and catechism and Sunday school, and he recites the words easily, and the rest comes like a pent up flood. He prays for deliverance, prays for the safety of his squadmates, prays for his father and whispers an apology into the humid night. He prays for a boy he once knew, golden and rebellious and angry and lost, and he prays that Clint Barton found a light to guide him home, wherever home may be.

***

Phil Coulson is thirty one, and he’s in his first year at Harvard Divinity School, after having gotten his undergraduate degrees in History and Religion with the help of the G.I. Bill. After leaving Afghanistan as part of a diplomatic prisoner exchange program, he had set out to do two things - reconcile with his father, and find Clint Barton. He’d done well with the former, but the latter has proved more elusive. Sometimes, Phil wonders if he’s better off not knowing. Perhaps his memories of Clint are more transcendent than they otherwise would be, filtered through the hazy breath of a perfect summer. Perhaps it really was just a teenage dalliance, a short passionate thing between two kids who didn’t know better, but even as Phil tells himself that it was nothing at all, he knows that it isn’t true.

But tonight, Jasper Sitwell is in town, and he’s going out for a drink with his old friend. Jasper is already at the bar when Phil arrives, fiddling with a cherry in his drink. They catch up for hours, and it doesn’t take long for them to fall into their old routines of ribbing each other, and Phil is relieved to have a friend that doesn’t stop swearing just because he’s decided to study religion for a living. Jasper is thoroughly plastered, and Phil is definitely buzzed, when Jasper gasps at a commercial playing on television. “Oh my god, let’s go to the circus,” he says, and Phil turns to the screen where a beautiful redhead is winking right at him. “Come to Carson’s Carnival of Travelling Wonders! Meet Hawkeye, the World’s Greatest Marksman, the Bearded Lady and more!” she exclaims, dressed in a devastatingly feminine approximation of a ringleader’s jacket and hat.

“Well, it’s in town, and the second show starts at ten, so we can still catch it.” Phil offers, and when Jasper’s delighted expression answers, Phil finds himself closing his bar tab and then piling into a cab with his friend.

***

Clint Barton is twenty nine, and he thinks that he’s in love with Natasha Romanov, but he can’t really be sure, because she’s certainly not in love with him.

Clint climbs the tall rope ladder for his act, squints into the bright lights and swipes his eyes across the audience. They’re like little ants, little sheep led to the spectacle. He’s loves performing, loves the heady thrill of applause, but he still disdains the people that patronize his world, so ready to be fooled and tricked by slights of hand and carny games.

Most of all, he’s tired. There aren’t many lifestyles that make a person feel more uprooted than the nomadic life of a carny, and Clint is no exception. Even though it wasn’t perfect, Clint always thinks about the last time he had a home, with the Collins. He’d had Phil Coulson then too, had a friend for a couple of months. Even though Clint has managed to fall in and out of love many times since he was fifteen, and fallen in and out of many more beds in the meantime, there’s still something inimitable and special about that summer, and Clint holds the memory close and lets it reassure him that he might find a place to grow roots in again someday.

***

The audience gasps as Hawkeye lets loose his first arrow, easily hitting an apple that was on a beautiful, pirouetting, girl's head. Phil recognizes the girl as the ringleader from the commercial, but he's not really looking at her, even if her sparkly lilac bodysuit shimmers like diamonds under the hot stage lights. The apple is pinned, and then shattered on a target behind her, and she laughs a happy laugh as she picks bits of apple out of her red hair.

Phil gasps too, but for a different reason. Hawkeye performs the rest of his act with a bright smile and a light touch, and Phil looks on, amazed. The teenage boy he once gave his crappy bow to is now the World’s Greatest Marksman, and Phil’s chest is bursting with pride and love to see what Clint Barton has become.  

Phil stands, intending to clap until his hands are sore, because this is Clint, _his_ Clint, his perfect golden boy, now all grown up and so beautiful. There is a smudge of dark eyeshadow around Clint’s eyes, and it only serves to draw out the deep greens and violent greys of his piercing stare. And his costume, purple and sleeveless and tight in all the right places - well, that’s just absolutely ridiculous. The first person Phil has ever been in love with is strutting around the largest ring of a three ring circus,. and he looks so proud and confident, and Phil wants to leap past the metal barrier and tell him just that.

The redhead comes out again, this time dressed back in her ringleader costume, and the entire tent explodes in cheers as the elephants and trapeze artists and clowns parade around the tent for their curtain call. She stands on the highest circular platform, bowing to the adoring crowd and Hawkeye - Clint - hops up beside her and does the same. And then, she reaches an arm around him, sliding down his back, and then he’s kissing her fervently as she arches into his grip.

Phil can’t look away, as much as he desperately wants to, his memories conjured up by the sight of Clint’s hands roaming over the tightly fitting ringleader’s costume - he knows how strong but delicate those hands are, so skilled and insistent. Clint finally pulls away, and his lips are swollen and wet, noticeable even under the harsh lights and from a distance, and Phil makes himself turn and follow in the direction of the exiting audience, disallowing himself to dwell on the forbidden fruit of his childhood love.

The look on Clint’s face, happy and proud and as gorgeous as he’s ever been, haunts Phil as he waves another cab down. This is not a man that will settle for anything less than adventure, Phil thinks, and he can’t offer that. All Phil can offer is a small country church, and a lifetime of service to God and a congregation, and men like Clint Barton were not made to accompany small town church pastors. Men like Clint Barton were made for the stage, not for teaching Sunday School, for glimmering bright spotlights and fame, not bake sales and lemonade stands.

When a surprisingly intuitive Jasper suggests that they continue drinking their sorrows away, Phil gladly agrees.

***

Clint Barton is thirty six, and he is now a full partner in Barton and Romanov’s Carnival of Travelling Wonders, having bought the whole thing from Carson when the old man retired. They’re in Middlebury, Vermont, camping out on an acre of farmland owned by a man that Natasha knows. Next week, they’ll be going up to Montreal, to meet with a man who says he wants to help them build a new kind of circus show, but Clint doesn’t care, not really. His joints ache, from over a decade of travelling and performing, of dancing like a monkey for patrons that they have to beg for. He’s exhausted, and he’ll go wherever Natasha wants him to, but his heart’s not in it anymore, hasn’t been in years.

The rest of the circus folk, the ones that don’t have families or anywhere else to go during their break, are gathered around a campfire, singing bawdy songs, but Clint wants to be alone, perhaps cook something in his tiny trailer and just spend a night staring at the stars, scattered like pebbles across the empty sky. He rides his motorcycle out of the cargo truck it lives in and starts down the street to the supermarket. It is actually five miles away, but the cold air in his face feels nice, and the quiet hills feel even better.

His muscles ache as he strides through the meat and produce sections, hurting more than they should when he's just doing ordinary things like picking out a steak and selecting a nice bunch of spinach. He's already feeling defeated, and exhausted, and perhaps he'll just have soup. 

“Well, yes, I think that’ll be alright.” A voice floats in from the neighbouring aisle, and Clint startles because it is painfully familiar. He leans over, peeks through the cans of soup to try and get a look, and - it’s Phil. It’s Phil, and it couldn’t be anyone but Phil, because he still holds himself the same way, upright but welcoming. He’s older now, of course, and his hair is thinning, and he’s smiling as he talks on the phone. He’s dressed in a simple plaid button down shirt and khaki pants, and there is a silver cross hanging on a light chain around his neck. “Yes, of course I’m available tonight.” he says, distracted by his conversation.

Clint’s heart is pounding out of his chest as he crouches down further to get a good look at Phil, but stops short when he sees the grocery cart. Phil’s grocery cart is filled to the brim, with enough perishables to feed a family of six. Clint takes in the large box of diapers, and the small cans of baby food, and the anti-rash lotion, all sharing space in the cart, and his heart hurts in a way he’s never felt before, standing right there in a brightly lit aisle of a grocery store.

“Well, you know how it is. Anything for the kids.” Phil says, that wry lilt in his voice perfect and exactly like it was over two decades ago. Phil hangs up and sighs, and looks directly in the direction of Clint’s spot between the soup cans, and his eyes are still blue and kind, perhaps even kinder now that they crease in the edges, like Phil’s been living a life with an endless well of love and laughter in it. Phil doesn’t see him, just reaches over and picks up a box of cereal and reads the nutritional facts on the side, and that gesture is so ordinary, so domestic, that Clint just can’t take it anymore.

He doesn’t bother checking out, just leaves the shopping basket full of his planned dinner on the ground, and bolts out of the grocery store, suddenly needing to breathe the cold night air, needing to let the frost chill his lungs to remind him that he is still alive, and he's gotten this far without Phil. He tells himself that he’s not sad, just angry, because of course Phil Coulson would get a lovely suburban life in a lovely house in New England, with lovely children, and a lovely wife. Of course Phil Coulson wears khaki pants and collared shirts and a silver cross around his neck because of course Phil Coulson still has faith, still believes that people are good inside.

And at the end of the day, Clint is just a carny, just another kid who isn’t good at anything but archery. Sure, he runs a business, owns a circus, but what the hell does that matter for someone like Phil? Phil’s moved on, started a family, lived his life -  surely Clint can too.

The fire is out by the time he gets back to the campground, after he rides his bike fifty miles in the direction of Massachusetts. He only realizes it when he has to stop for gas, realizes that some internal compass is pulling him to the small town where he first met Phil, trying to recreate the heady days of that perfect summer. He turns back, of course.

The campground is quiet when he wheels his bike back into the cargo truck, and he plods through the damp grass to his lonely trailer, his stomach growling.

Natasha is waiting on the steps of his trailer when he approaches. She’s holding two large slices of pie on a plate in her lap, and Clint reaches for it, but she yanks it away, patting the step beside her as an invitation to sit down.

“The clowns had a bake-off. I saved some for you, but only if you tell me why you’ve been gone for hours and why you look like you’ve been crying.” Natasha says, handing him a fork. She doesn’t actually prevent him from taking the pie from her, already knowing that he’ll spill his guts to her, because he always does.

“I saw someone I knew at the grocery store. “ Clint mutters, between mouthfuls of pie, and feeling a little bit grateful that at least pie is not a dessert he subconsciously associates with Phil. He’s starving, and the pie only lasts a few minutes, and then he’s finished eating and Natasha is waiting.

Natasha butts her shoulder up against his, and the pressure is comforting. “That still doesn’t explain why you look totally wrecked.”

“It was Phil.” Clint says, and hears a small “Oh” from Natasha. They’ve been together long enough that she’s seen his relationships fail, one after the other. She’s been there through all of it, helping steady him as he drinks too much and cries in her lap about how none of them have made him feel the same way that Phil did, and she’s never once made fun of him for carrying a torch for a boy that he met when he was only fifteen.

“You didn’t even say hi to him, did you?” Natasha surmises, and then Clint is telling her about the baby diapers, and the family’s worth of food, and how Phil is happy, has to be happy with a nice house and a nice wife and probably a nice golden retriever in the backyard.

“We’re here for another week before we go to Montreal. Go find him. You’ve been kind of in love for this guy for who knows how long - go find out. Maybe he is happy, maybe he has a family, and you’ve totally missed your chance - but go and find out for sure.”

Clint nods, not quite processing anything Natasha is saying.

“Let the story end, Clint. Don’t let the ‘what-ifs’ consume you. He might not be the same boy you once knew, and maybe you won’t even be interested anymore. Go find him, and say hello, and if it all just ends in a polite cup of coffee at a Starbucks...well, at least you’ll know.”

She rests her head on Clint’s shoulder, letting her arm wrap around him. “Hey, you,”she says, tipping his chin up. “You’re the bravest person I know. You can do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry - this chapter is all angst and no porn, but I promise you that we are in the process of wrapping up the final chapter, and AdamantSteve has written some wonderful porn for your dirty, dirty eyes. 
> 
> love, dustbear


	6. Chapter 6

Clint wanders aimlessly down Middlebury’s Main Street, the street that all small towns have that are strewn with adorable bookshops and independent coffeehouses, and he’s not sure what he’s looking for in this small town, not entirely certain that his plan to just walk around and hopefully run into Phil is particularly well thought out.  

It’s the sound of singing that he ends up following, the melodic strains of a hymn he’s heard before. It’s a cacophony of children’s voices, not quite polished into a professional choir and quite a bit out of tune - _our God is an awesome God, he reigns from heaven above, with wisdom power and love, our God is an awesome God_ \- the rhyme is simple, accompanied by the sweet sound of a single violin, and the voices are clear and bright, and before he realizes it, he’s standing in front of the open doors of the Middlebury Unitarian Universalist Church. Clint slides carefully into the empty back pew and - of course, there’s Phil.

Phil is sitting on the small stage, his head bowed over a cello, although he somehow manages to also smile encouragingly at the children on stage. There are perhaps twelve of them there, in a variety of ages. The oldest one is a girl, and she’s probably actually already eighteen, dressed in a pretty violet dress, and she’s the one playing the violin. The song comes to an end, or rather a bit of a rough stuttering halt (the youngest children seem to have forgotten how many times the final refrain is repeated), and the congregation tries not to giggle. Clint wants to leave, to turn away from this tiny world that is clearly not made for him, but he can’t, drawn in by the intense warmth that he feels in this small church house.

“Well, that was...something.” The girl says, laughing into a mic. “As you can tell, we’re still ironing out the kinks in the Coulson Children’s Choir.”

“It’s not called that, Katie.” Phil says, his eyes crinkling as he tries to frown sternly at her.

“Sorry, the Middlebury Unitarian Children’s Choir. We have some work to do, obviously.” She clears her throat. “Alright, I’m ready. Kids - remember that you come in during the third verse, not the first. Hit it, Mr. Pastor!”

Phil rolls his eyes, but he draws his bow across the strings of his cello, and the low thrum of his instrument rings out in the church, the familiar tune reverberating in Clint’s bones.

 _Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me_ , the girl - Katie - sings, her voice clean and loud over the cello. _I once was lost, but now I'm found_   - the arrangement is a bit rough, and not quite pretty, but it is still perfect - _'twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved_ \- and Clint dares a little to believe that it might be true, that there may still be a little bit of grace in the world for a lost soul like him.

He closes his eyes and bows his head and lets the words wash over him - _through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come; 'tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home_ \- the third verse begins, and then the other children’s voices join in, and then the entire church is singing, and Clint finds himself singing along, his eyes closed and his head bowed. He knows the lyrics, knows the song, drilled into him by four years of Church and Sunday School, but the words have never resonated as much as they do now. He’s so enraptured by the hymn, that he doesn’t quite notice that the cello stutters and misses a note.

 

 

***

 

Phil is certain that he’s going mad, because there’s a man in the back row of his church that looks exactly like Clint Barton, and his lips are gorgeously perfect and they’re singing Amazing Grace. He can’t stop staring, and he’s grateful that he knows this song by heart because he has no interest at all in looking at his sheet music, and Kate will be furious if he messes up her song.

His confusion gives way to terror when they reach the last verse, and the man looks up and it’s Clint, it is absolutely Clint and none other. Because Phil has seen that stricken, trapped look before, and he’d sworn to always be there, to always protect Clint, to _wait_. But Clint hadn’t come back, and Phil had built a life for himself, because childish promises are for children.

But perhaps, there are always second chances.

The hymn draws to an end, and Phil stands up, reaching in his pocket for the sermon notes he has neatly written on index cards. Kate offers him his stole, but he waves it away, suddenly painfully conscious that he’s always worn purple stoles and his favourite colour is really not purple.

He stands in front of his congregation, his eyes right on the back row where Clint is now fidgeting, and sets aside his notes. It was a sermon about hard work, and perseverance, and it’s still a sermon worth preaching someday - but not today. Phil steps up to his pulpit, flips his Bible open to the correct page, and inhales deeply. “In Luke, he tells several parables about finding what you’ve lost.” he starts, and he can barely hear his own voice over his own heartbeat.

“Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it?” Phil says, quoting the apostle Luke, and the lump in his throat does not dissipate, because he been looking for Clint Barton for two decades, and now he’s _here_.

His voice feels hoarse and strained, but he continues. “And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’”

 

 

***

 

Clint wants to run again, seeing Phil at the pulpit. He’s not much taller than he was at seventeen, although his shoulders are broader and his voice is smooth and steady as he preaches to his flock. The congregation listens intently, listens to Phil talk about finding what was once thought lost, and Clint listens too, because he wants to desperately believe that it’s him that Phil wants to find again.

He is suddenly jostled by an elbow, sliding down the smooth church pew, and finds a violin case unceremoniously plopped next to his ankles.

“Hi! You’re new.” the girl - Katie? Kate? - whispers, although it is more of a stage whisper, and the row of parishioners in front of him turn and frown gently in their direction.

“Um, yes?” Clint says.

“We’re having an ice cream social after. “ she says, thrusting a church programme in his hand. “You should stay.”

Clint looks down at the folded piece of coloured construction paper. Pastor - Rev. Phil Coulson, it reads, right under the name of the church, and Clint can’t help smiling because _of course_ this was what Phil was meant to do. He’s always had it in him, that deep sustaining faith, that belief in humanity’s deserved grace. And, Clint thinks as his heart sinks - he can’t quite live up to that, can he? He hasn’t believed in God for a long time, hasn’t since he hopped on a freight train and lived on the kindness of people for months, the people who couldn’t quite walk past a starving boy on the streets. He hasn’t believed in God since his first audition at Carson’s Carnival, since he refused to pray before letting loose his first arrow, and hit the target anyway. Clint hasn’t believed in God for a long time, because what has God done for him? Where was God when he was tired, when he was lonely, when all he had to warm him were memories of a sort-of-family, and a friend?

The sermon ends and Clint is already standing up, intending to slip out as quietly as he can. Phil is still speaking to individual parishioners, and Clint is certain that he can disappear now. But, Kate has slipped her hand tight around his arm and is pulling him forward. “Nope, we’re having ice cream, remember? And you have to meet my dad. He always wants to meet new people.”

“Your - your dad?” Clint stammers.

“Yeah. The pastor?” Kate continues dragging him along, bypassing most of the milling crowd through a back door. No, Clint thinks, please do not introduce me to your father. He does the calculation in his head, if Kate is about eighteen, then Phil’s been probably been married for almost two decades, which means - well, it means that Phil never really waited at all. He steels himself, trying to shake away the nervous gulp he can’t avoid making. He’ll meet Phil, then. He’ll meet Phil, and his certainly lovely church wife, and his entire brood of gorgeous church children, and Clint is a grown man, and he’s survived quite a lot of things, and he can certainly handle this.

Kate pulls him into the nearly empty church courtyard, already set up with tables and gallons of ice cream and ice cream toppings. She thrusts an empty plastic bowl in his hand, which is promptly filled with chocolate ice cream and rainbow sprinkles. “I hope you’re not allergic to dairy. Stay here. I’m going to tell Dad that we have a guest.”

Clint’s hands are trembling, and he looks desperately for an exit, but all the doors lead back into the church in some fashion. The back fence looks scaleable though, and he’s starting towards it when there is a strong pair of hands on his arm, pulling him back. He hadn’t even heard any footsteps, so when he turns around he’s not expecting to see Phil, certainly not Phil with the most broken look that Clint has ever seen on any face, including the one in the mirror.

“Clint.” Phil hisses, his voice cracking. He actually looks furious. “You were going to leave without even saying hello?”

And Clint finds himself slammed against the wooden fence of the small church courtyard, and yanked into a brutally hard kiss, more rude demand than passion. “I thought I lost you.” Phil mumbles, his voice soft and shattered, holding Clint’s shocked face in his hands.

In the courtyard, the church parishioners are starting to drift in, chatting happily about their neighbours and children. “But - your wife?” Clint stammers, although he realizes that there isn’t a band of cold metal around Phil’s left ring finger, which is still pressed against his cheek.

Phil raises his eyebrow. “I’m not married. Come with me.” Phil’s hand on his arm is as insistent as Kate’s. Clint wants to ask about Kate, ask if Phil _had_ a wife, ask about the baby diapers and baby food, but Phil's pushing him into an empty classroom, and the questions are forgotten because Phil’s solid mass is pressing him into a wall, and he’s getting kissed roughly and desperately, and it’s Phil, _his_ Phil. Improbably, he is also still holding the bowl of ice cream in one hand. He detaches himself and sets the bowl down on the large oak desk in front of the classroom, not forgetting the last time that he’d been in a room with Phil and ice cream, and his body responds immediately to the memory.

And then, Phil is on him again, shoving against his shoulders - “You didn’t come back.” Phil says, his voice quiet and bitter. “You said you’d come back, asshole.” Phil fumes indignantly, his face only inches away, and Clint can feel the angry heat in his short breaths and in his red cheeks.

Clint shoves back, hard. If nothing else, he’s a fighter. “And you said you’d wait.” Clint points out.

Phil stumbles back several steps with Clint’s push. He stands there, his arms wrapped around himself, and laughs a pained laugh. “I did.” he says, his voice choking. “I did wait.” And, in that moment, he's not Reverend Phil Coulson anymore, he's just Phil, a little bit angry and a little bit lost, same as he ever was.

Clint makes his decision, then. He reaches out his hand, hesitantly at first, and then Phil is in his arms again, holding on as if his life depended on how tightly his arms could squeeze. Clint reaches to tip Phil’s chin up, and it’s the same face, the same eyes, the same wry smile that he fell in love with when he was fifteen. He has questions, and he doesn’t know how Phil will answer them, but he’ll take anything that Phil is willing to offer.

Clint slides his hands down the strong, lean line of Phil's body until they’re at his hips, pulling him backwards until his own ass hits the desk, jostling the spoon in the bowl of melting ice cream. He sits then, perching on the edge of the desk, and it's not because his knees are a little weak at being kissed so thoroughly, so earnestly - it's just easier to hold tightly on to Phil this way, that's all.

Phil's so neat and buttoned up - his light blue collared shirt pressed and unwrinkled - between his knees, not much different from the boy Clint remembers, though a little taller, a little bigger all over. He's suddenly hit with the realisation, when Phil runs his hands over the curve of Clint's biceps, that he must look very different to the last time Phil ever saw him, and he's sorry about it, sorry for changing when Phil seems to have stayed so much the same.

But his worries appear to be unfounded, because Phil squeezes the muscles under his hands (and Clint can't help but flex as he does it, always wanting to impress this perfect boy) and kisses him hard before murmuring against his lips. "You... you're so...hot," and then he ducks his head adorably at his own ineloquence. "Sorry, I-" but Clint cuts him off with a kiss. There'll probably be endless apologies and explanations soon enough, but right now? Clint just wants the thing he's dreamed about for far too long; to show Phil just how much he's learned in all their time apart. He’s many things, Clint Barton, but he'll never stop wanting to impress Phil Coulson.

"Did you think about fucking me?" Clint says, his own youthful memories goading him to ask. Phil's eyes darken and he nods his head helplessly, like it's something of a shame to confess to.

"Me too," Clint replies, popping the button on the top of Phil's pants and sliding off the desk as he does it. "All the time, Phil. We barely knew what we were doing but it was so good."

"Clint," Phil gasps when his cock is in Clint's hand, and it's just as hard and perfect as Clint remembers it. Phil seems to think of Clint's cock as an afterthought, reaching for it but being waylaid by the distraction of Clint's lips on his neck, and his neck is rougher than he remembers it, a man's skin instead of a boy's.

He's pulling away suddenly then, and Clint thinks for one horrible moment that he's changed his mind, or is off to find a goddamn Bible for old time’s sake. But he's rooting around in the desk drawer beside them, one hand tucked behind the belt buckle he'd been working on opening. He comes back with a red flush on his cheeks that makes him look even more like the sweet boy Clint's thought of all these long years.

It's a bottle of Jergens hand cream, and Clint's not sure such an innocuous object has ever seemed so instantly sinful (but then, he’s been getting hard ons around ice cream for almost two decades now). Phil quirks his lips and then he grins. "The Sunday School teacher gets dry hands."

Clint undoes his own belt in response, crowds against Phil with a searching kiss as he plucks the bottle from Phil's hands. He squeezes some into his palm and the smell of the cream almost rocks Clint on his feet, the sense memory is so strong. Suddenly he's a kid again, in a too small shirt and a clip on tie, disbelieving that this beautiful, perfect boy could be looking at him like this, touching him like this, wanting him even for a moment.

He's smooth usually, full of sexy moves and clever plays and just the right thing to say, but Clint suddenly can't do a thing, he's completely blindsided by the smell of a perfect summer, and it's only Phil wrapping his hand around Clint's and pulling it down to both their cocks that brings him back, and another hand on the back of Clint's neck pulling him into a kiss that is new, with the soft little bristles on Clint's chin and the harder ones on Phil's, a different angle and bigger hands. They're both of them not quite the same person they used to be, not quite different people either, but this Clint is happy to meet this Phil, glad of the strong hands holding him just right.

This isn't how he'd imagined it, all those lonely nights when his mind turned back to the memory of their almost innocent sins. He'd imagined stalking into a church and fucking Phil over a lectern, or sucking him off kneeling on one of those embroidered prayer cushions. Running away together on a motorcycle or making Phil join the circus with him. He'd imagined force and declarations and - he hadn't imagined this, on the edge of tears and out of time, Phil having such big, soft hands that are a man's hands, or a man's lips, or the solid weight of his man’s body right there, holding him together so he doesn't fall hopelessly apart.

He'd meant for Phil to fuck him, or for him to fuck Phil, because that makes sense somehow, a solid conclusion to this story that he'd never quite believed would get told. Instead, he gasps against Phil's neck, held there as Phil jacks them off between them, Clint moving his hand led by Phil's sure guidance, until Phil says something against his neck, something he can't make out but sounds like a prayer or a promise and he comes, hot and shuddering, moments before Phil comes too, and then they're pressed together, damp and warm and panting, barely holding each other up.

"What did you say?" Clint asks eventually, when he doesn't think his voice will crack too badly.

Phil shakes his head. "Nothing."

Clint doesn't believe him, and gives him a look which says just that, and Phil ducks his head and smiles. "I missed you, that's all."

Clint has never had a great bedside manner, which countless other lovers will attest to (not that any of them matter right now), so he looks into Phil’s eyes and says. “Kate’s your daughter.”

Phil smiles. “Yes. And Elijah, he’s four. And America, she’s six. And as of yesterday, Teddy. He’s eighteen months old. And I’ve never been married.”

Clint lets his head fall back, staring at the flourescent lights on the ceiling. “Oh.” he says, because - _oh_? Phil does not seem likely to have children out of wedlock. He must look suitably confused because Phil chuckles next to him.

“I foster kids, Clint. I was Kate’s godfather when her parents died. I’ve adopted her, but the process for the others have been more complicated.”

Clint lets the revelation sink in, not quite understanding yet. “But...why?”

”Because I like kids, and I want to help them. They’re supposed to be the difficult cases, but I can provide them with some stability and some love, for as long as I can have them. And also, because I’ve spent over twenty years thinking I screwed up this one foster kid’s life by being a stupid horny teenager, so maybe I’ve been trying to make up for it.”

“I did okay, you know. I own a circus.” Clint says, although he doesn’t really want to go back to it.

“I know. I’ve been - er, I’ve sort of been following your career.”

“And you never came to say hi?”

Phil chuckles, a bit sadly. “I’m a small town pastor. I’m a single father. My hair is thinning early. What could I have to offer you?”

 _Everything_ , Clint thinks. _Home_.

 

 

***

 

Phil introduces Clint to his congregation as an old friend. They welcome him warmly and happily, although some of the older women are already giving him knowing looks. “So, er, do they know you’re gay?” Clint asks and Phil points out that he leads a Unitarian Church in Vermont, which means that about a quarter of the congregation already falls somewhere on the higher end of the Kinsey scale, and the other three fourths are trying to set him up with their gay cousins.

“Um, have you dated much?” Clint’s voice is so hesitant that it makes Phil chuckle.

“Not really, but I haven’t been able to deflect all of the attempts, because it isn’t seemly for a young church pastor to admit that he still carries a torch for his teenage boyfriend. We don’t do vows of chastity either, if you’re wondering about that.” Phil feels oddly comfortable admitting that, telling Clint that in a sense, it has always been Clint, and - come to think about it, he really has waited.

Clint snorts at that. “Your dad gave me one of your dog tags. Are you still estranged?”

“No, we’re on good terms now. Do you remember your brother?”

“Jake?”

“He’s moved into my old room. They’re roommates.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” Phil says, and Clint starts laughing. “Mind you, I really do believe that my father has remained faithful to his vow of celibacy.”

“Seriously? So they just live together?” Clint looks doubtful, for good reason.

Phil shrugs. “I suspect they mean a lot to each other. And they make it work.”

Clint huffs. “Well, _I_ like sex.”

“I’m glad we agree on that.” Phil says, as wry and deadpan as ever, and he slips his hand into Clint’s as they walk back to the parking lot.

Phil’s house is a large farmhouse a couple miles from the church, located on five acres of land, and Phil had once thought that it felt too big. But now that it’s filled with a spread of toys on the front lawn, and a smattering of childish paintings on the refrigerator and finally - now that Clint is leaning in the doorway, the early afternoon sun lighting his hair like a halo, it finally feels like a home.

“Watch the floor. The kids have been really into Legos recently.” Phil says, as Clint easily shrugs off his shoes. “Um, Teddy’s with his birth mother for the weekend. The other kids are at Sunday School, except for Kate who’s at her gymnastics class. Kate’s nineteen, she drives herself.” he feels compelled to add, as if to assure Clint that he really is a decent parent and hasn’t abandoned his children in favor of an afternoon tryst with his old boyfriend. “They’ll be really glad to meet you, I think. I’m actually going to apologize in advance for Kate, because she’s taking archery lessons, and she might lose her mind when she finds out who you are.” He rambles on nervously, not knowing exactly what to do now that his life is actually complete.

“How long do we have?” Clint asks.

About two hours, Phil wants to say, until Sunday School lets out and he has to pick up the children. Instead, the words fall out of his mouth unprompted - “Forever, if you’d like to stay.” He clamps his mouth shut immediately, embarrassed at his presumption.

But Clint only smiles, his eyes wide and not a little bit moist. And then he smirks and steps forward, easily lining up their bodies, and Phil bites the inside of his own cheek, because if this has been a dream, he’d like to wake up before his heart is thoroughly shattered again. His cheek hurts, and he tastes a little bit of blood, but he’s still awake, and Clint is still there, right in front of him.

“Do you remember what you said the last time?”

“I assume it was something along the lines, of ‘I love you.’”

“It was, and I love you too, but for my purposes, I’d like to go with the other thing you told me.” Clint leans in, his lips brushing tentatively against Phil’s ear. “You said I could fuck you.”

Phil is fairly certain that this is Clint Barton, and not a demon sent to tempt him with the promise of previously unknown pleasures, but he bites the inside of his other cheek just in case. “Do - do you want a house tour?” he asks anyway, because politeness is bred into his New England blood.

Clint chuckles. “Let’s start with your bedroom.”

 

 

***

 

It’s different now, and not just in the obvious physical ways. It’s better. Phil has always been gentle, but he takes his time undressing Clint, as if he were a Christmas present (the kind wrapped in beautiful paper that you'll save for later, not the cheap brown paper you tear apart). Clint is riveted to the graceful slope of Phil’s hands, large and strong, but yet uncalloused. Clint helps, pulling his shirt over his head, and Phil’s fingers tangle in a long silver chain around his neck.

“Is that one of my dogtags?”

“Your dad gave it to me. I already told you that.” Clint explains, suddenly feeling awkward about it. It’s been a good luck charm of sorts, a rock to anchor him - even in his darkest moments (the empty, unyielding, desperate ones that shattered his soul into something he once thought unredeemable), he’d clutch the small piece of metal, and remember that someone good loved him once, and someday, someone good might love him again.

“Yes, but you didn’t mention that you wore it.” Phil fingers the tag, running his fingers over the debossed letters, pausing over the empty space where a religion would have been listed. “You know, even when I didn’t believe in God, I still believed in you.” Phil says - and yeah, Clint understands that sentiment.

Phil continues then, his kisses painfully slow, and for a second, Clint worries if Phil has gone vanilla, if Phil is going to be all about long walks on the beach and candlelit dinners and slow sex in the missionary position, but Phil, as always, manages to reassure him.

“Do you want to know what I’m really sorry I never got to try with you?” Phil whispers, brushing against Clint’s ear, his voice husky and low. “I wanted to lube you up perfectly, feed my wooden rosary up your tight ass, and suck your cock. And when you’d come into my mouth, like you always did, I’d yank my rosary out, and you’d scream my name.”

Clint’s mind might actually fritz out then, because Phil, and _rosaries_ , and holy hell, that is so sacrilegious. “But...you’re a church pastor.” he manages to stammer out, even as Phil shoves him onto the soft bed and begins to insistently tug his tight jeans off.

“And not a Catholic one, so unfortunately, I no longer carry a rosary. Besides, I am more sanitary now, and you can’t sterilize wooden beads.”

“But - you and sex and - “

“I thought we covered that during the part with the handjobs in my Sunday school teacher’s classroom?”

“Oh god, do you have a buttplug?” Clint can’t believe that that’s the question he chooses to ask, but the image of seventeen year old Phil masturbating is suddenly transposed with this image of the very grown Phil, wearing ironed shirts and well tailored suits, just - just jerking off with a buttplug shoved up his ass, without a care in the world. And Clint truly didn’t think that Phil could get hotter than the Phil he’d kept in his head for two decades, but this - this responsible, competent, loving man is actually more attractive than the boy of his dreams.

“Yes, I do. It’s purple.” Phil says, and that detail is what makes Clint snap, and before he knows it, he’s howling on Phil’s bed, and Phil is giggling along, a high pitched sound that absolutely does not befit his usual composure. Both of them are finally naked, and all they’re doing is clutching on to each other, trying to chase away tears of laughter, and it is everything that Clint didn’t know he’d been wanting.

"What else? What else did you think about doing?" Clint goads, a grin already playing on his lips because Phil couldn't possibly say anything that would live up to that image.

"I've thought about sucking your gorgeous cock for two decades-" He gazes down Clint's body slowly, like he's savoring the view. Clint's dick twitches under his gaze and Phil dips his head to kiss the very tip of it. When he looks back up at Clint and licks his lips, it jerks again, lightly bopping against Phil's chin in a way that's far too cute for an erection to be acting.

"I thought about your asshole a lot," Phil keeps going, conversationally, "Mostly your cock, though. Mostly about how it always looks best when it's in my mouth."

Clint's cock desperately tries to make contact again and Phil licks the very end, and Clint remembers how much of a tease he could be sometimes, all those years ago. "You can do that," Clint says. "If you want to, that is?" and jesus, he thinks, is he really so tongue tied that he can't just say "suck my cock"?

"I thought about you fucking me," Phil replies seriously. "And I thought about that godawful confessional far more than I probably should have."

Clint can't help but groan at the reminder, because he's had quite a lot of sex, but that still stands out in his memory as one of the filthiest things he's ever done.

"I thought about going in there and finding you, lubed up and stretched out already, waiting to confess all your little, petty sins, waiting to be told to say three Hail Marys and receive forgiveness and a hard cock shoved up your ass."

Clint tries not to swallow his words as he tries to play coy. "That seems like a bit much for just petty sins."

"Well, God is merciful." Phil smiles, improbably wicked, "But I'm just a man."

Clint squirms at the shiver of arousal that sweeps through him, and he almost flinches when he feels Phil's hand on his thigh, shifting his leg. "Yes," he breathes, though he's not even sure what Phil's plan is, and wasn't he meant to be doing the fucking, here? But he doesn't care, he'll do whatever Phil wants, and if Phil's reaching for - oh wow, actual lube - and slicking his fingers up, who is Clint to complain?

"But most of all, I think of you - just you - biting your lower lip just like you're doing now, like you're so unsure about what i'm actually going to do to you, as if you don't already know."

Phil shifts between his legs and reaches back, and Clint's eyes widen when he realises what Reverend Philip J Coulson is doing with those lubed up fingers of his. "I don't need to suck your cock, by the way." he says, shoulder shifting, one hand high on Clint's thigh, face inches from Clint's dick. "You're already hard enough for me to ride, and I've barely touched you.” He pauses and grins at the widening of Clint’s eyes. “Ever fucked an ordained minister before, Clint?"

Clint almost swears, turning the word 'fuck' into, " _Phil!_ " and he's got no idea when he turned into such a prude, and it's not as if Phil hasn't said filthier things. But it's this mental image of Phil, arching and bobbing on his hard cock - that's what makes him finally gaze guiltily up at the ceiling, as if there really were a God there to offend - "Jesus Christ, you can't just say these things!"

Phil's grinning and laughing at him, still working away at himself with a terribly pleased look on his face.

"I can," he replies. "You blush when I say them, and-" he breaks off to watch Clint's dick jump as if on cue, "-it turns you on. And by the way, you shouldn't use the Lord's name in vain."

He says it like it's simple, as if driving Clint crazy is part of a divine plan, something fated to happen and Phil's just here to facilitate it. Phil licks at Clint’s cock a little though, just enough to drive him closer to the edge of desperation as he continues to lube himself open like it’s no big deal. Phil smiles slowly, and he looks like he's trying to be excruciatingly patient, as if this might be the last time, and he wants to do it right. Clint would tell him differently if his brain had the blood to process any thought beyond tracking the distance between Phil’s mouth and the head of his own cock, that they'll have all the time in the world and he’ll stay forever if Phil would have him, even with the ache of his balls at Phil’s sadistic teasing.

Mercifully, Phil shifts, and leans over to his bedside cabinet for a condom which he carefully applies to Clint’s cock along with a generous amount of lube, coming back to straddle Clint’s waist and look down on him with eyes that do not belong anywhere outside of a bordello. Clint is prepared to say something clever, but he forgets it immediately, because Phil is already confidently lining him up and sinking slowly down, and holy mother of god. He wraps Clint in the heat of his body with his jaw slack and his eyes heavy-lidded, leaning forward to kiss Clint once he’s fully seated. Clint manages to regain enough composure to wrap his arms around Phil’s waist and kiss back, holding on tight as Phil starts to move, slowly at first, just an easy glide of his hips back and forth, letting Clint slip out an inch before easing him back inside.

It’s perfect, almost frightening in its slow intimacy, and Clint holds on a little tighter for fear that it’ll show on his face how desperately good it feels, how Phil has reduced him to a bundle of awkward nerves and giggles. But Phil pulls back anyway, kissing Clint’s chin as he moves away to look at him with a faraway look which transforms slowly, beautifully, into something filthy and satisfied. “That’s better,” he says, brushing his hands over Clint’s chest until he braces his arms and starts to really move, grinning when Clint puts his own hands on Phil’s hips as much to feel the movement there as to control it. “You feel so good inside me. Just like I always imagined.”

Clint nods, dumbly saying, “yeah,” because all he’s able to do right now is agree - yes to Phil, yes to the tight heat of Phil around him, the weight of his body on top of him, the broad hands braced on his torso and the thumbs easily brushing over his nipples. Yes to _everything_.

“You know, I've fantasized about this,” Phil’s saying, levering himself up and down slowly again, rolling his hips like… like anything but the buttoned up preacher he'd appeared to be, and well - still is, and the incongruity turns Clint on far more than he'd like to admit. “I used to open myself up and fuck myself with a dildo thinking of you, thinking about making good on that promise.” Phil continues, before he slams himself down roughly, moaning an absolutely depraved moan as he does it, and Clint’s hands hold him there, keeping him as deep as he can for just a moment. The shiver that he can feel run through Phil clears his head enough to realise that goddammit, he is Clint Barton, and he's left a very long list of men and women sated and begging for more, and he can absolutely put all the things he’s learned in the intervening years to some use.

“Getting your perfect ass fucked by me? Is that what you thought about?” Clint asks, not even caring that his voice comes out strained, and not quite as sultry as he'd intended.

Phil nods and moans a little, high pitched sound when Clint holds on tightly to his hips and rolls his own to fuck up into him. “Your cock is -” he breaks off when Clint shoves into him again, taking more control of the situation, “much better in real life.”

 

Even as Clint starts fucking him faster, legs splayed out to brace his feet on the bed and hands holding Phil right where he wants, Phil keeps talking, like he needs to confess everything he can before the rest of their lives pulls them apart again. “I’d think about you coming inside me at seven thirty on a Sunday morning,” he says between thrusts, leaning down over Clint to bite at his neck. Clint isn't entirely certain why the precise schedule of the time and day matters, but Phil continues, and oh. “And then I'd plug myself up and go to church, and I'd preach my sermon with your cum still inside me.” Which, oh god, that is absolutely scandalous - the thought of Phil preaching about the love and sacrifice of Jesus Christ with an ass full of cum - and Clint almost feels bad about how quickly it makes his balls hitch up with a murmured promise of orgasm. Almost.

“Pretty sure that’s not proper behaviour for the leader of a congregation,” Clint says, smirking when Phil pulls away from him far enough to glare playfully at him. "But, I could make you wait to have your turn until after the ice cream social; make you get through your sermon with a hard cock too."

They’re both too far gone to laugh properly, huffing in amusement between moans and sighs instead, and Phil looks so good, a pink flush up his lightly furred chest and high on his cheeks, the sated look Clint’s seen on other people’s faces before but never so wonderfully as on Phil’s. "There is nothing in the Bible that says I can't have an assful of cum. I've checked." Phil says, a devastatingly mischievous look on his face, "But if you're feeling particularly devout, there's a verse in Genesis that might prohibit pulling out, so you'll have to make sure that you get all of it into my ass." Phil smirks, and Clint decides right there that he’ll do anything he can to make Phil look that satisfied, as long as Phil will allow him to.

He shifts then, holding onto Phil tight and surging up, still seated inside him. Clint can't help but feel proud at the way Phil eyes his strong arm muscles as he manages to easily and acrobatically flip Phil over on his back in a single smooth motion. Phil yelps as he does it, a sharp gasp that turns into something much deeper, a shivering groan that tells Clint he’d thought about this too. “Can I just use you?”, he asks, pushing Phil’s arms up and holding his wrists in place experimentally, pressing down a little when Phil’s eyes widen and he nods fervently, finally speechless. "How hard do you want me to fuck you?" Clint ventures, giving a rough experimental thrust. In response, Phil wraps his legs around Clint’s waist and seems to melt around him, sighing and whimpering as Clint fucks him harder and harder, bucking up inelegantly into Clint's thrusts and throwing in mostly incomprehensible phrases that are muffled by the skin of Clint’s shoulder.

They’re pressed together so close that Clint can feel Phil’s hard cock trapped and straining between them, and he gathers both Phil’s hands in one of his own to snake the other between their bodies. Phil tightens around him and tries to shake his head, but he can barely hold on and comes the moment Clint touches him, just with a light brush of fingers, and he’s writhing and screaming like a demon out of the second circle of hell.

Not to be outdone by Phil’s filthy confessions, Clint pulls his hand free and makes sure that he has a rapt audience before licking some of the cum off of it, feeling Phil clench around him again as he does it, still in the final throes of his orgasm. Phil's eyes are glazed and his smile is easy and sloppy even as he tries to catch his breath, but he is apparently not to be beaten at his own game, pulling one hand free to draw Clint's hand to his own mouth and lick his index finger clean. That is what finally does it for Clint, his hips moving of their own accord a few times in quick succession before he comes hard, sinking deep into Phil's relaxed ass. He rests his head against Phil’s shoulder as he gasps his release, feeling grateful that the tears suddenly stinging his eyes are hidden by the salty sweat on their bodies. Phil huffs a content sigh and wraps a strong arm around him and holds on as he trembles unapologetically, the slick between them only adding to the debauchery.

Clint comes down slowly, realising after a moment that he’s still holding one of Phil’s hands over his head, letting go and mumbling an apology. Phil shushes him, a sliver of the stern Reverend Coulson sneaking back in, and rubs his hands over Clint’s back, comforting in a way Clint didn’t realise he wanted this much. He lets himself sink into the tight hold Phil has around him, and he’s pleased that Phil makes a sound of displeasure when he tries to move. He stays put, moving only when the tightness of Phil around his softening cock isn’t so pleasurable anymore, disposing of the condom and wiping off both their bellies with a corner of a sheet. Phil splays out on the bed, letting Clint clean both of them up, letting Clint take care of the mess, letting Clint take care of him - and Clint realizes that this is exactly what he wants to be doing until the end of days.

“Well,” Phil says once Clint’s stopped fussing and has slipped into his arms again, which feel better every time. “Worth the wait?”

Clint snorts, because he hasn't felt quite this happy, or quite this exhausted, in a very long time. "I don't know. I'm still disappointed that Unitarians don't have confessionals."

 

 

***

 

What surprises Clint most is how easily he fits into this life - this simple, pastoral life full of family dinners and after school play dates, and Phil. He doesn’t do much but follow Phil around for the first day, but Phil declares him irrepressibly distracting and sends him on errands - just short trips to the grocery store, or some small home repair tasks, and Clint loves the slow domesticity of this life. Natasha calls him on the third day, and when she asks if he’ll be back before they leave, he says that he will be, because he'd promised, but his heart’s not in it.

America, Phil’s foster daughter, is a whirlwind of dark curls and brimstone, and she doesn’t stay still for long. Clint gets used to the sight of Phil running after her in the large yard and sighing as he picks up her toys. Most of all though, it’s the way that Phil sits her down at the kitchen table - and she’s just a six year old girl with skinned knees and dirt stains on her face and messy pigtails - and explain patiently to her why she shouldn’t hit her brother or smash his toys, that’s what really alternately stabs at and warms Clint’s heart, knowing that Phil’s providing a real home, a sanctuary for his children. Clint knows that this may not last forever - foster children often return to their families, there is always paperwork, and difficult legal procedures - but he knows that Phil will fight for his kids, and he’ll give them all that he can give, for as long as he can keep them.

Eli is more withdrawn, but Clint catches the boy staring at him out of his peripheral vision. He doesn’t approach the skittish boy, but sits on the front porch reading, making sure that he doesn’t look that interested in the book (he’s not, it’s a tome on Civil War history he plucked off Phil’s bookshelf). Eli does shuffle over, a bit nervously, and sits by Clint’s feet, still not looking him in the eye.

Finally, Eli speaks - “Mr. Barton, Dad said you were a foster kid too.”

Clint smiles. “Yeah, I was.”

When Phil finds them that evening, Clint and Eli are crouched over a small patch of dirt in the backyard, scrawling hobo sign code in the ground. Behind them, lie the remains of a failed attempt to build a teepee, and there is a giant mud smear on Clint’s face left by a small hand, but Eli is laughing and chattering away happily, and there’s no better sound in the world.

Phil’s right, Kate does flip out when she finds out what his job is, and Clint finds a bow in his hands not five minutes later, and then he’s shooting arrows in the backyard, Kate looking suitably starstruck. And then, Kate takes the bow from him, and - well, _wow_.

“Phil!” Clint yells, storming into the study, where Phil is bent over a stack of books with a pair of thin rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose. “You said Kate was taking archery lessons!”

Phil looks up, unfazed. “She is.” He returns to making notes in his book. He looks really good in glasses, Clint stops to think, but he barrels past that thought because he is genuinely annoyed that Phil doesn’t seem to have noticed how _good_ his daughter is.

“She doesn’t need archery _lessons_. She’s perfect! She’s definitely better than whomever her instructor is! Haven’t you noticed that she hits the bullseye every single time? While dancing? While jumping off your roof? With her eyes closed?”

“I have, and please do not encourage her to jump off the roof.” A smile grows on Phil’s face. “It’s just that I saw a fifteen year old boy do the same sort of thing once, so I thought that was expected.”

Clint ignores the smile. “Are you kidding me, Phil? She’s only nineteen, and she’s controlling a sixty pound draw without batting an eye - by the way, that’s way more than necessary for just trick shots, her instructor must be an idiot - and I’ve been training archers for years who don’t have even close to the natural grace that she has.”

“And what is your point?” Phil raises a stern eyebrow.

“Let me help - let me train her. Let me take her to Montreal - we’re building a new show there. I’ll teach her not just how to shoot a bow, but really _perform_. She deserves to be with people that can push her further, where she can really refine those skills into something special.”

“She’s going to college.”

“I’m trying to tell you how incredibly _talented_ Kate is, and you want her to waste it on what - an English major? Do you know what she could be? She’s special, Phil, really special!”

“And what if she does become a performer? What if she hurts herself? What’s that lifestyle going to be like when she’s thirty? Forty?”

“She’ll be fine. I’ll take care of her.” Clint insists, because he will. He’s already started to think of Kate as family, which terrifies him, because he’s already started to think of Phil as family, and that’s not something that’s been explicitly offered yet, not outside the context of a bedroom or a passion soaked reunion. “I got my GED and a degree in Business when I was on the road, you know.”

Phil sighs. “She’s legally an adult. She can do what she wants. She has a large trust fund that she just came into as well, so she doesn’t actually need my money either.”

“But she’ll listen to you.”

“Mostly, yes. And I’m not budging on the college issue.” Phil rubs his temple and closes his book, and looks at Clint like the stern, disappointed pastor that he is. “And please don’t talk to her about it yet, I don’t want her to get her hopes up.”

Clint huffs angrily, and marches out, back to the backyard where Kate is waiting eagerly, having found another one of her bows, this one a lighter recurve that is inexplicably covered in purple glitter. “I’ll use my old bow. Wanna shoot some fruit?”

It isn’t until later that Clint realizes that he’d just had his first fight with Phil, and out of all things, they’d been fighting about Phil’s _kid_. But, despite everything, Phil never pulled the “Well, _I’m_ her father, not you.” card, and - well, maybe that meant that Phil already called him family, after all.

 

 

***

 

“I have to go. To Montreal.” Clint says, and Phil’s heart skips several beats, but Clint is already wrapping his long arms around Phil’s chest and whispering softly - “I’ll come back, promise. I’ve just only found you again, I’m not letting go that easily.”

Still, it’s hard to watch Clint get dressed, picking up his clothing from where it’s strewn around the floor, and moving around the small room like he’s lived there forever, and not just a week. They say goodbye at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around hot cups of coffee, and Phil tries to remember every one of Clint’s small smiles even though he already knows that he’s not going to forget.

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, he thinks, watching Clint walk out the door, and having nothing but trust and faith in the promise that he will return. Clint stops at his motorcycle, fishes in his saddlebags for a second, before returning to Phil’s place on his small front porch.

“I have something for you.” Clint says, his hands wrapped around a large grey envelope. He offers it in Phil’s direction, hesitantly.

“It’s um - all the stuff you’ll need to submit the paperwork for my background check for social services. I - er, well, I was caught smoking pot when I was nineteen, so I’ll need a criminal record exemption, but the documentation is all there, including my character references and fingerprints and all the relevant records, and I already talked to the lady at the social services office, and she said it wouldn’t be a problem. She helped me with getting all this sorted, so er...yeah, it should be fine.”

Phil stares down at the envelope, realizing what Clint has done, realizing what he means. It’s not just a promise to come back - it’s a promise that he’ll _stay_.

Clint looks nervous. “Is that okay? If this is too fast, I can get my own place - ”

Phil laughs, and it’s all he can do to pull Clint closer. The kids choose to pour out of the house then, with the exception of Kate who likes to sleep past noon. They giggle and run around Phil and Clint’s knees, but Phil doesn’t consider that a good reason to let go until Teddy comes barrelling out of the house, and Phil has to catch the toddler because he’s very good at running, but not yet good at stopping.

“Where is Uncle Clint going?” America asks, her small hand latched onto Clint’s pant leg.

Clint kneels down, looking America in the eye. “I’m going to Montreal for a few months to help start a new circus show. I’d much rather be here, but I promised, and I keep my promises.”

“Do you promise to come back?” Eli asks, his small face brimming with tears. Clint has been good for Eli, and the young boy has come out of his shell a lot in just a week, even if Phil had also started rolling his eyes at the amount of times that Eli could preface a sentence with "Uncle Clint says that...".

“I promise to come back.” Clint says, and he speaks to Eli like he’s just a smaller adult, and his promise is no less genuine for being offered to a child.

“Dada stay.” Teddy says, reaching for Clint’s nose as Phil picks the toddler up.

“Will you stay when you come back?” America pipes up, crawling onto Clint’s knee, which is a bit awkward because America is six, and already rather large for her age.

Clint fidgets nervously, waiting for his answer - somehow managing to look like both the personification of a den of iniquity, and yet, something good, something kind, something worth keeping, something that Phil deserves.

They’ll have a lot to learn still, and Phil wants to learn - wants to learn the stories behind the small wrinkles that edge around Clint’s eyes, learn the fairytales that dance behind his laugh lines, and the nightmares that lurk behind his scars. Clint looks up at Phil with nothing but devotion and trust in his eyes, just like he’s done so many times before, and Phil wants to answer that question in a manner utterly inappropriate for children. “I’ve already had too much time away from you,” he says instead, and pulls Clint into a not-quite-chaste kiss. “Yes, of course he’ll stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...we're done!
> 
> We're working on an separate epilogue that ties up some loose ends - Isn't Clint still an atheist? What happens to Kate? What's the deal with Phil's dad and Jake Collins? - but we felt that this was a good end to the story. Also, the epilogue is all fluff, and stood better alone.
> 
> This has been so much fun to work on, and we both thank you all so much for reading and commenting.
> 
> AdamantSteve on tumblr - [adamantsteve.tumblr.com](http://adamantsteve.tumblr.com)  
> dustjane on tumblr - [dustjane.tumblr.com](http://dustjane.tumblr.com)


End file.
